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ENGLISH    mEN   OF   LETTE1(S 
EDWARD    FITZGERALD 


ENGLISH   ^MEN   OF   LETTERS 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 


BY 


A.    C.    BENSON 

FELLOW  OF  MAGDALENE  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 


LONDON:     MACMILLAN     l3     CO.,    LIMITED 
NINETEEN     HUNDRED     AND     F I  \'  E 


Copyright  in  the  United  States  of  America,  1905 


College 
Library 

r  \< 

PEEFATOEY  NOTE 

The  principal  books  which  I  have  consulted,  and  to 
which  reference  is  made  in  the  following  pages,  besides 
FitzGerald's  own  publications,  are  the  following : — 

Letters  and  Literary  Bemains  of  Edward  Fit:.Gerahl, 
3  vols.  (Macmillan  &  Co.),  1889;  Letters  of  Edtcard 
FitzGerald,  2  vols.  (Macmillan  &  Co.),  1901  ;  Letters 
of  Edicard  FitzGerald  to  Fanny  Kemhle  (1871-1883), 
(Richard  Bentley  &  Son),  1895  ;  More  Letters  of  Edward 
FitzGerald  (Macmillan  &  Co.),  1901  ;  Miscellanies,  by 
Edward  FitzGerald  (Macmillan  &  Co.),  1900— the 
above  all  edited  by  Mr.  AYilliam  Aldis  "Wright. 

The  Lfe  of  Edward  FitzGerald,  2  vols.,  by  Thomas 
Wright  (Grant  Richards),  1904;  The  Life  of  Edvmrd 
FitzGerald,  by  John  Glyde  (introduction  ])y  Edward 
Clodd),  (C.  Arthur  Pearson),  1900  ;  Tv:o  Suffolk  Friends, 
by  Francis  Hindes  Groonie  (Blackwood),  1895;  Life 
and  Ijetti'r.>  of  Edicard  liyles  Coux-ll,  by  George  Co  well 
(Macmillan),  1904. 

In  studying  the  Oinar  Khayyhji  by  FitzGerald,  I 
ha^'e  found  specially  useful  the  volume  containing  the 
four  editions  published  in  the  ])0('t's  lifciimo  (Mac- 
milLui),  1902  ;  the  ^•olunle  entitled  Kdirard  Fit-J'lerahJ'< 
liidni'iy''''  if  Oinar  Kliainji'vi,  iri/h  t/i'ir  oriijinol  Pi  r.-i'in 
Sources  collated  from  Iii<  own  MS>":>.,  and  lileralhj  translotul. 


1 


vi  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

by  Edward  Heron- Allen  (Bernard  Quaritch),  1899  ;  a 
volume  containing  the  Ruhd'iyat,  with  a  commentary 
by  H.  M.  Batson,  and  an  introduction  by  Principal 
E.  D.  Ross  (Methuen),  1900 ;  and  for  general  purposes, 
A  Literary  Histwy  of  Persia,  by  Professor  E.  G.  Browne 
(Fisher  Unwin),  1902. 

For  the  Bibliography  I  have  been  enabled  to  consult 
the  Chronological  List  of  Edward  FitzGerald's  books, 
printed  by  the  Caxton  Club,  Chicago,  1899,  and  the 
Notes  for  a  Bibliography  of  Edward  FitzGerald,  reprinted 
from  Notes  and  Queries,  1900. 

I  have  also  consulted  the  Dictionary  of  National  Bio- 
graphy, together  with  other  critical  and  biographical 
essays  and  articles. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  thanking  the  following 
for  help,  advice,  and  criticism.  Mr.  W.  Aldis  Wright, 
who  has  very  kindly  and  readily  answered  my  ques- 
tions, and  lent  me  interesting  unpublished  documents ; 
Mr.  James  Fitzmaurice-Kelly,  who  has  given  me  simply 
invaluable  assistance  in  the  section  dealing  with  Fitz- 
Gei-ald's  translations  from  Calderon ;  Mr.  Thomas 
Wright,  for  kind  permission  to  make  use  of  his  Life 
of  EdvKird  FitzGerald,  which  is  a  mine  of  detailed 
information  about  the  poet's  daily  life  and  movements ; 
Mr.  John  Glyde,  for  a  similar  permission ;  Mr.  Edward 
Heron- Allen,  for  permission  to  quote  from  his  transla- 
tion mentioned  above  ;  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  Mr.  Percy 
Lubbock,  Mr.  Howard  0.  Sturgis,  and  other  friends. 

A.  C.  B. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    I 

PACE 

Eakly  Yeak.s 1 


CHAPTER    II 
Middle  Life ,24 

CHAPTER    III 
Later  Ykaks 46 

CHAPTER    IV 

Friends 67 

CHAPTER    V 
Wkitincs — "  O.m.m;  Khayyam  ■" 84 

CHAPTER    VI 
Plays — "  Eithkanor  ""—Letters    ....     118 

CHAPTER    VII 
Criticism  .         .  147 

C  H  A  P  T  !•;  R     \- 1 1 1 

Hahits — CiiAi'ACTi:!;  .......      1(17 

Index         .         .  ....  -^Ol* 


EDWAED   FITZGEEALD 

CHAPTER   I 

EARLY    YEARS 

The  life  that  it  is  here  proposed  to  depict  was  a  life 
singularly  devoid  of  incident.  It  was  the  career  of  a 
lonely,  secluded,  fastidious,  and  affectionate  man ;  it 
was  a  life  not  rich  in  results,  not  fruitful  in  example. 
It  is  the  history  of  a  few  great  friendships,  much 
quiet  benevolence,  tender  loyalty,  wistful  enjoyment. 
The  tangible  results  are  a  single  small  volume  of 
impei'ishable  quality,  some  accomplished  translations 
of  no  great  literary  importance,  a  little  piece  of  delicate 
prose-writing,  and  many  beautiful  letters. 

But  over  the  whole  is  the  indefinable  charm  of 
temperament  and  personality.  The  background  is  so 
minute,  so  uneventful,  that  it  is  only  possible  to  draw 
a  Dutch  picture,  so  to  speak,  of  the  scene,  not  slurring 
over  details,  nor  discai'ding  homely  touches,  but 
depicting  with  careful  fidelity  the  trivial  round  of 
little  incidents  and  pleasures  in  Avhich  FitzGerald  Avas 
more  or  less  content  to  live. 

It  may  be  thought  that  there  is  an  excess  of 
extracts  from  the  letters ;  but  FitzGerald  had  a 
marvellous  power  of  dipping  and  steeping  the  minute 
circumstances  of  his  life  in  the  subtle  and  evasive 
personality  which    is    the  essence   of   tlic   man.      He 

A 


2  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

contrived  to  cast,  by  a  style  of  wonderful  purity  and 
individuality,  a  delicate  aroma  of  reflection,  of  pathos, 
of  charm,  over  facts  and  thoughts  that  have  but  little 
distinct  and  actual  significance.  And  therefore  I  have 
endeavoured  to  let  FitzGerald  speak  much  for  himself, 
because  I  believe  that  it  is  the  only  true  method  of 
giving  an  impression  of  a  character  that,  in  spite  of 
eccentricity,  listlessness,  and  melancholy,  possessed  a 
rich  and  subtle  attractiveness  that  is  sometimes  denied 
to  figures  of  more  vital  force  and  more  supreme 
achievement. 

Edward  FitzGerald  was  born  on  the  31st  of  March 
1809.  It  is  a  fascinating  but  somewhat  delusive  task 
to  try  to  trace  the  origins  of  genius.  A  great  writer  is 
often  the  outcome  of  a  vigorous  stock  which  has  done 
nothing  to  exhaust  its  artistic  vitality,  but  has  slowly 
matured  among  simple  pursuits;  as  for  immediate 
precursors,  a  mother  of  strong  feeling  and  a  father  of 
mild  literary  tastes  would  seem  to  afford  the  best 
possibilities;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  devise  a  milieu  more  incongruous  with  the 
temperament  and  preoccupations  of  Edward  FitzGerald 
than  that  in  which  he  was  actually  born. 

His  father  and  mother  were  first  cousins ;  his  father 
was  John  Purcoll,  son  of  a  wealthy  Irish  doctor,  a 
Dublin  man,  who  traced  his  descent  from  Cromwell ; 
among  the  family  relics  were  the  Protector's  sword 
and  watch.  FitzGerald's  mother  was  Mary  Frances 
FitzGerald,  herself  the  child  of  first  cousins,  and 
descended  from  the  p]arls  of  Kildarc.  His  maternal 
grandfather  was  a  man  of  great  wealth,  with  estates 
in  Ireland,  Northamptonshire,  Suffolk,  and  elsewhere. 
Upon  his  death  in  1818,  John  Purcell,  FitzGerald's 
father,    assumed    his    wife's    surname,    she   being   her 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  3 

father's  heiress.  "I  somehow  detest  my  own  scrol- 
loping  surname,"  wrote  our  hero  at  the  end  of  his  life 
to  Mr.  Aldis  Wright. 

Edward  FitzGerald  was  the  seventh  of  eight  children. 
His  father  was  a  typical  country  squire,  fond  of  hunting 
and  shooting,  and  M.P.  for  Seaford ;  but  had  an  un- 
balanced vein  in  him,  a  tendency  to  nurse  unpractical 
schemes,  which  eventually  led  to  financial  disaster ; 
FitzGerald's  mother  was  a  vivid,  gifted  woman,  of 
fashionable  and  social  tastes,  a  good  linguist,  and  fond 
of  poetry.  Her  portrait  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  to 
whom  she  more  than  once  sat,  shows  a  face  of  a 
haughty  type,  with  bold  dark  eyes,  an  aquiline  nose, 
black  lustrous  hair,  and  a  small  thin-lipped  mouth, 
which  gives  an  imperious  and  not  wholly  agreeable 
look  to  the  face.  Her  children  admired  her  intensely, 
but  felt  rather  awe  than  love  for  the  majestic  and 
superb  lady.  The  Fit/Xleralds  lived  in  considerable 
splendour.  The  bouse  in  which  Edward  was  born 
was  the  White  House,  Bredfield  (now  called  Bredfield 
House),  a  stately,  plastered,  Jacobean  mansion  near 
Woodbridgc.  They  had  a  town-house  in  Portland 
Place,  as  well  as  a  Manor-house  at  Naseby,  called 
Naseby  "\^'oolleys,  where  some  of  FitzGerald's  early 
life  was  spent.  There  was  another  house  on  an 
estate  at  Seaford,  and  another  at  Castle  Irwell,  near 
Manchester.  They  owned  pictures,  old  china,  and 
gold  plate ;  they  had  a  box  at  the  Hayniarket ; 
Mrs.  Fit/.Gerald  drove  ab(Mit  in  a  coach-and-foui-. 
Mr.  FitzGei'ald  spent  money  profusely  on  his  sta})lo, 
his  electioneering  expenses,  his  shooting.  He  seems 
to  have  had  little  head  for  business  ;  he  Avas  robbed 
by  his  bailitls ;  but  his  fortune  could  have  stood 
considera])le  inroads  had  he  not  concei\cd  a  wild 
design  of  digging  for  coal  under  his  Manchester  pro- 


4  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

perty,  a  scheme  which  was  eventually  to  engulph  a 
great  part  of  his  fortune. 

When  Edward  was  five  years  old,  his  father  took 
a  house  in  Paris ;  and  several  months  were  spent  there 
in  each  of  the  next  few  years.  In  1821  the  boy 
went  to  King  Edward's  School,  Bury  St.  Edmunds, 
under  Dr.  Malkin.  He  retained  a  pleasant  recollec- 
tion of  this  portly,  genial,  handsome,  energetic  man, 
Avhose  lameness  did  not  detract  from  his  dignity ; 
and  of  the  vivacity  and  kindness  of  Mrs.  Malkin. 
The  school  had  a  great  reputation,  and  Dr.  Malkin 
paid  special  attention  to  the  writing  of  English.  From 
his  school-days  date  several  of  FitzGerald's  lifelong 
friendships.  Among  his  boy-friends  were  "William 
Bodham  Donne  (1807-1882),  the  well-knoAvn  historical 
writer,  and  eventually  Licenser  of  Plays  ;  J.  M.  Kemble 
(1807-1857),  the  famous  Anglo-Saxon  scholar;  and 
James  Spedding  (1808-1881),  the  editor  of  Bacon,  a 
man  of  real  though  secluded  genius. 

In  1825  the  FitzGeralds  left  Bredfield  and  moved 
to  a  fine  house  near  Ipswich,  "Wherstead  Lodge,  Avhich 
had  previously  been  let  to  Lord  Granville,  with  the 
shooting,  for  £1000  a  year;  it  was  famous  for  its 
collection  of  pictures,  and  contained  works  by  Hogarth, 
Cosway,  Kneller,  Lely,  and  Reynolds. 

Up  to  this  time  there  is  little  in  the  records  which 
would  enable  one  to  forecast  the  boy's  future  fame.  He 
was  fond  of  books,  fond  of  the  country  and  the  sea ; 
and  with  a  great  devotion  to  the  theatre.  The  home 
life  had  been  happy  and  full  of  stir ;  he  had  more 
experience  of  the  world  than  most  boys  of  his  a^-e ; 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  wilfulness  in  the  family,  and 
independence  of  temperament,  which  developed  later 
into  strong  eccentricit}'  in  more  than  one  member  of 
the  circle.     Two  traits  of  character,  however,  can  be 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  5 

traced  from  an  early  age ;  one  was  FitzGerald's  gift 
for  idealising  his  friends,  which  led  in  after-life  to 
some  very  true  and  sacred  friendships,  and  also  to 
some  inconvenient  sentimentality  :  the  other  was  the 
boy's  perception  of  and  delight  in  individualities  and 
oddities  of  character.  The  neighbourhood  of  Wood- 
bridge  seems  to  have  been  rich  in  singular  specimens 
of  humanity.  Such  was  Squire  Jenny,  a  near  neigh- 
bour, a  jovial,  vigorous  old  sportsman,  of  short  stature 
and  with  enormous  ears,  who  lived  with  open  windows, 
in  carpetless  rooms,  into  which  the  snow  was  alloAvcd 
to  drift;  his  house  presided  over  by  a  miserly  sister, 
who  htiardcd  money  like  a  magpie,  and  practised  a 
sordid  frugalitj'.  Another  such  was  a  portly  old 
Anglo-Indian,  Major  Moor,  who  wore  a  huge  white 
hat,  many  si/.es  too  big  for  him,  and  carried  a  stick 
made  from  llie  timbers  of  the  Ii'oi/al  George.  The 
Major  collected  images  of  Oriental  gods,  which  he 
eventually  immured  in  a  pyramidal  mausoleum  near  his 
front  drive.  lie  was  always  ready  to  walk  with  the 
l)oy,  and  would  talk  for  the  hour  together  about  the 
racy  provincialisms  of  the  countryside,  and  about  his 
Eastern  experiences.  To  this  influence  we  can  con- 
fidciutly  trace  FitzGerald's  early  taste  foi-  expressive 
local  words,  and  his  interest  in  Oriental  literature. 
Indeed  Major  Moor  can,  ])erhaps,  be  dignified  with  the 
title  of  the  true  begetter  of  the  Omar  Khayyiim. 

The  l)oy"s  delight  in  these  singular  pei'soiis,  his 
appreciation  of  their  personalities,  their  Avays,  their 
idiosyncrasies,  show  that  his  perception,  his  interest, 
and  his  observation  wei'c  even  at  this  early  age  l)oth 
keen  and  hunidrous. 

Edwaril  FitzGerald  was  one  wlio  lived  all  his  life 
with  a  wistftd  and  tender  outlook  u})on  the  past.  The 
old  stories,  the  old  days,  had  always  a  kind  of  identic 


6  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

consecration  for  him ;  one  of  the  latest  visits  he  ever 
paid  was  to  see  the  old  school  at  Bury ;  and  there  is 
a  little  reminiscence  of  him,  when  quite  an  old  man, 
in  one  of  the  half-whimsical,  half-tender  moods  which 
characterised  him,  going  through  the  grounds  of  Bred- 
field,  and  refusing  to  enter  the  house ;  but  gazing 
curiously  in  at  the  windows  of  the  so-called  "  Magis- 
trate's Room,"  because  it  was  there  that  he  used  to 
be  whipped. 

In  October  1826,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  Fitz- 
Gerald  went  into  residence  at  Cambridge,  entering 
Trinity  College;  he  lodged  with  a  Mrs.  Perry,  at 
No.  19,  King's  Parade,  the  house  having  been  since 
rebuilt.  The  windows  looked  out  on  the  fantastic 
screen  of  King's  College,  then  just  completed,  the 
gate-house  crowned  with  heavy  pinnacles,  and  the 
austere  and  towering  east  front  of  the  College  Chapel. 
The  Master  of  Trinity  was  Christopher  AYordsworth, 
a  younger  brother  of  the  poet,  a  man  of  majestic 
appearance  and  donnish  manners.  He  was  named  by 
FitzGerakl  and  his  irreverent  friends  "  the  Meeserable 
Sinner,"  from  his  affected  manner  of  responding  in  the 
College  Chapel ;  and  the  epithet  was  transferred  to 
"Daddy"  Wordsworth — as  FitzGerakl  loved  to  call  the 
bard — whom  they  named  the  "Meeseral)le  Poet."  Chief 
among  FitzGcrald's  friends  was  AV.  M.  Thackeray, 
then  settled  in  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  great 
court  of  Trinity,  near  the  chapel.  The  other  members 
of  the  circle  were  John  Allen,  afterwards  Archdeacon 
of  Salop,  a  guileless,  vigorous,  and  straightforward 
youth,  of  whom  Bishop  Lonsdale  long  afterwards  wrote 
that  he  had  never  met  a  man  who  feared  God  more, 
or  man  less ;  W.  H.  Thompson,  afterwards  the  famous 
Master  of  Trinity  ;  Frank  Edgeworth,  the  brother  of 
the  authorcso  ;  Robert  Groome,  afterwards  Archdeacon 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  7 

of  Suffolk ;  Charles  Buller — then  fresh  from  the  tute- 
lage of  Carlyle — who  was  to  die  prematurely  before 
he  attained  the  parliamentary  fame  which  seemed 
surely  awaiting  him ;  Frederick  Maurice,  the  theological 
philosopher;  John  M.  Kemble;  Blakesley,  afterwards 
Dean  of  Lincoln ;  Merivale,  the  historian,  afterwards 
Dean  of  Ely  ;  James  Spedding  ;  and  Richard  Monckton- 
Milnes,  afterwards  Lord  Houghton.  Richard  Trench, 
afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  and  the  Tennysons, 
Frederic,^  Charles,  and  Alfred,  were  FitzGerald's  con- 
temporaries at  Cambridge,  but  he  did  not  come  to 
know  them  until  a  later  date. 

It  is  a  remarkable  group  of  men  ;  and  perhaps  the 
most  notable  fact  is  that  though  many  of  them 
drifted  apart  from  each  other,  yet  FitzGerald,  recluse 
as  he  was,  continued  to  keep  up  affectionate  relations 
with  nearly  all  of  them  throughout  life.  "  What 
passions  our  friendships  were ! "  wrote  Thackei-ay  of 
those  undergraduate  days.  Friendships  remained 
passions  for  FitzGerald. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  FitzGerald  was  not 
an  earnest  student.  He  pottered  alwut,  read  such 
classical  authors  as  he  liked  in  a  desultory  way ; 
occupied  himself  Avith  water-colour  drawing,  music, 
and  poetry.     He  cared   nothing  for  the  political  and 

^  Frederic  Tennyson,  elder  brother  of  Alfred,  was  born  in 
1807  ;  he  took  his  degree  in  1832.  He  married  in  1830  Maria 
Ciuliotti,  danghter  of  the  chief  magistrate  of  Siena,  and  took 
up  his  abode  in  Florence,  where  he  lived  for  twent}-  years, 
afterwards  moving  to  Jersey.  He  had  a  certain  lyrical  gift,  but 
was  overshadowed  by  his  brother's  fame,  and  his  poems.  Days 
and  Jlours,  puldished  in  18r)4,  had  little  success.  Between 
1890  and  1895  he  publislicd  three  volumes  of  verse  ;  ho  was  at 
one  time  much  under  the  dominion  of  mystical  and  Sweden- 
borgian  ideas  ;  many  of  Fitzlicrald's  best  letters  were  written 
to  him,  though  after  early  life  tliey  never  met. 


8  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

social  aspiratious  which  set  his  companions  aglow; 
he  walked,  talked,  strolled  into  his  friends'  rooms; 
he  smoked,  drank  coffee,  sang  songs,  and  exchanged 
sketches  with  Thackeray.  He  had  plenty  of  money, 
but  no  expensive  tastes.  His  wardrobe  was  in  a 
perpetual  condition  of  dilapidation,  insomuch  that 
when  his  majestic  mother  rattled  into  Cambridge, 
with  her  yellow  coach  and  four  black  horses,  like 
a  fairy  queen,  and  sent  a  man-servant  to  acquaint 
FitzGerald  with  her  arrival,  he  had  no  boots  in 
which  to  attend  her  summons. 

There  are  two  little  pencil  sketches  of  FitzGerald 
as  an  undergraduate,  drawn  possibly  by  Spedding,  now 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  of  great  interest. 
In  these  he  appears  as  a  tall,  loosely  built  youth,  care- 
lessly dressed,  with  rather  full  and  prominent  lips,  of  an 
ingenuous  and  pleasing  aspect ;  in  one,  a  three-quarter 
face,  he  wears  a  smiling  air.  In  the  other,  there  is  a 
pathetic  droop  of  the  brows  which  gives  the  face  a 
sadder  expression,  more  like  his  later  look. 

In  these  days  FitzGerald  nursed  far-reaching  literary 
projects,  and  was  by  no  means  devoid  of  ambitious 
dreams.  He  wrote  long  afterwards  to  Frederic  Tenny- 
son : — 

"  I  have  been  ...  to  visit  a  parson  in  Dorsetshire.  He 
wore  cap  and  gown  when  I  did  at  Cambridge— together  did 
we  roam  the  fields  about  Grantchester,  discuss  all  things, 
thought  ourselves  fine  fellows,  and  that  one  day  we  should 
make  a  noise  in  the  world.  He  is  now  a  poor  Rector  in  one 
of  the  most  out-of-the-way  villages  in  England — has  five  chil- 
dren— fats  and  kills  his  pig — smokes  his  pipe—  loves  his  home 
and  cares  not  ever  to  be  seen  or  heard  of  out  of  it.  I  was 
amused  with  his  company  ;  he  nuich  pleased  to  see  me  :  we 
had  not  met  face  to  face  for  fifteen  years  ;  and  now  both  of 
us  such  very  sedate,  unambitious  people  I  " 

The  whole  Cambridge  life  was  a  delightful  one,  and 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  9 

exactly  suited  FitzGerald's  temperament.  He  con- 
trived to  take  a  degree  in  1830;  and  then  began  a 
vague,  drifting,  leisurely  existence  which  ended  only 
with  his  death.  He  had  money  enough  for  his  wants ; 
there  was  no  need  for  him  to  adopt  a  profession,  and 
it  appears  that  no  pressure  was  put  upon  him  to  induce 
him  to  do  so.  Probably  a  man  with  FitzGerald's  dis- 
position both  gained  and  lost  by  the  absence  of  definite 
occupation.  He  often  lamented  it  himself,  iMit  he  was 
too  irresolute  to  emlirace  a  discipline  which  might  have, 
so  to  speak,  pulled  him  together.  Perhaps  if  he  had 
been  forced  to  work  for  a  livelihood,  he  would  have 
been  more  careful  of  time ;  perhaps  steady  work  would 
have  cleared  off  the  vapours,  and  left  him  more  desirous 
to  use  his  hours  of  leisure.  It  is  practically  certain 
that  one  in  whom  the  instinct  for  literary  work  was 
so  definite  as  it  was  in  FitzGerakl,  would  somehow 
or  other  have  contrived  to  write.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  definite  occupation  would  have  aflectcd  the 
quality  of  FitzGerald's  writing.  It  is  hardly  conceiv- 
able that  he  could  have  been  successful  in  the  capacity 
of  a  professional  man,  though  his  patience  and  his  love 
of  finish  might  have  made  him  a  competent  official  : 
if  his  life  had  l)een  thus  ordered,  we  might  have 
had  more  translations  of  Greek  and  Spanish  plays, 
and  more  literary  essays;  but  we  should  hardly  have 
had  Omar  ;  and  certainly  not  the  incomparaljle  letters. 
So  FitzGerakl  floated  out  upon  the  world  ;  he  went 
for  a  long  visit  to  a  maiiied  .sister,  I\Ir.s.  Kerrich,  who 
lived  at  a  pleasant  })lacc,  Geldestone  Hall,  near 
Beccles.  After  this  he  was  to  be  f(nnid  at  Paris  stay- 
ing with  an  aunt,  and  in  the  company  of  Thackeray, 
Avlio  ])rofessed  to  be  studying  art.  But  it  seems 
that  Thackeray's  visit  to  Paris  was  a  clandestine 
one,  kt'pt  secret  from  his  jiarents ;  he  had  even  told 
his  college   tutor  that   he   Avas   to   spend   his  vacation 


10  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

in  Huntingdonshire.  Thackeray  enjoyed  himself  at 
the  time,  but  repented  at  leisure.  He  said  after- 
wards that  he  never  crossed  the  Channel  without 
thinking  regretfully  of  the  episode:  "Guilt,  sir,  guilt 
remains  stamped  on  the  memory."  From  an  endless 
round  of  gaieties,  breakfasts,  evening  parties,  theatres, 
FitzG-erald  escaped  with  a  firm  resolve  to  become  "a 
great  bear."  He  reached  Southampton,  where  he  fell 
in  with  Allen,  who,  in  the  course  of  a  walk  to  Netley, 
"tried  to  make  him  steady  in  his  views  on  religion." 

After  this  FitzGerald  went  off  to  the  paternal  estate 
of  Naseby,  where  he  lodged  at  a  farmhouse ;  and  here 
he  settled  down  to  the  kind  of  life  that  he  thoroughly 
enjoyed :  books,  walks,  and  the  company  of  simple 
village  people,  dining  with  the  village  carpenter,  and 
going  to  church  "quite  the  king"  in  a  brave,  blue 
frock-coat. 

Here  it  was  that  he  wrote  that  beautiful  lyric, 
"The  Meadows  in  Spring,"  which  has  so  sweet  an 
intermingled  flavour  of  old  and  new. 

"  'Tis  a  dull  sight 

To  see  the  year  dying. 
When  winter  winds 

Set  the  yellow  wood  sighing  : 
Sighing,  oh  1  sighing. 

When  such  a  time  cometh, 

I  do  retire 
Into  an  old  room 

Beside  a  bright  fire  : 
Oh,  pile  a  bright  fire  ! 

And  there  I  sit 

Reading  old  things, 
Of  knights  and  lorn  damsels 

While  the  wind  sings — 
Oh,  drearily  sings  ! 


L]  EARLY  YEARS  11 

I  never  look  out 

Nor  attend  to  the  blast ; 
For  all  to  be  seen 

Is  the  leaves  falling  fast : 
Falling,  falling ! 

But  close  at  the  hearth, 

Like  a  cricket,  sit  I, 
Reading  of  summer 

And  chivalry — 
Gallant  chivalry  ! 

Then  with  an  old  friend 

I  talk  of  our  youth — 
How  'twas  gladsome,  but  often 

Foolish,  forsooth  : 

But  gladsome,  gladsome  I 

Or  to  get  merry 

We  sing  some  old  rhyme. 
That  made  the  wood  ring  again 

In  summer  time  — 
Sweet  summer  time  ! 

Then  go  we  to  smoking, 

Silent  and  snug  : 
Nought  passes  between  us. 

Save  a  brown  jug — 
Sometimes  ! 

And  sometimes  a  tear 

Will  rise  in  each  eye, 
Seeing  tlie  two  old  friends 

So  merrily — 
So  merrily  I 

And  ere  to  bed  ' 
Oo  we,  f'o  wo. 


^  There  is  another  version  of  the  tenth  stanza,  in  a  probably 

earlier  book  : — 

"  So  winter  paBsetli 
Like  a  long  sleep 
From  falling  nuluinn 
To  primrose-peep." 


12  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Down  on  the  ashes 

We  kneel  on  the  knee, 
Praying  together ! 

Thus,  then,  live  I, 

Till,  'mid  all  the  gloom. 
By  Heaven  !  the  bold  sun 

Is  with  me  in  the  room 
Shining,  shining ! 

Then  the  clouds  part, 

Swallows  soaring  between  ; 
The  spring  is  alive, 

And  the  meadows  are  green  ! 

I  jump  up,  like  mad. 

Break  the  old  pipe  in  twain, 

And  away  to  the  meadows, 
The  meadows  again  I  " 

It  is  difficult  to  praise  this  charming  lyric  too  highly ; 
but  two  points  are  especially  noteworthy  in  it :  firstly, 
that  a  young  man  of  twenty-two  should  have  written 
a  poem  which  is  all  touched  with  a  sense  of  wistful 
retrospect,  is  very  characteristic  of  the  author;  and 
secondly,  from  the  technical  point  of  view,  we  may 
note  the  real  literary  skill  shown  in  the  construction 
of  the  stanzas  ;  the  unrhymed  fifth  line,  which  ends 
all  but  the  last  two  stanzas,  acts  as  a  delicate  refrain 
or  echo ;  and,  in  particular,  the  last  line  of  the  sixth 
stanza,  "But  gladsome,  gladsome,"  follows  with  the 
subtlest  charm  the  pause  of  reflective  thought. 

The  poem  appeared  in  Hone's  Year-Book  in  1831,  and 
again  in  the  Athenmim,  slightly  altered,  on  July  9  of  the 
same  j^ear.  It  was  by  some  supposed  to  be  the  work  of 
Charles  Lamb  ;  antl  that  Charles  Lamb  would  willingly 
have  been  the  author  is  proved  b}-  his  writing  of  it: 
"  The  Athena'uni  bus  been  hoaxed  with  some  exquisite 
poetry."   ..."  'Tis  a  poem  that  I  envy — that  and 


1.]  EARLY  YEARS  13 

Montgomery's  '  Last  Man  ' — I  envy  the  writers  because 
I  feel  I  could  have  done  something  like  them." 

To  this  period  also  belong  the  brisk  lines  "To  Will 
Thackeray  " : 

"  The  chair  that  "Will  sat  in  I  sit  in  the  best, 
The  tobacco  is  sweetest  which  Willy  lias  blest "  ; 

and  the  following  ja-ar,  1832,  the  beautiful  lines 'To 
a  Lady  singing" : 

"  Canst  thou,  my  Clora,  declare, 

After  thy  sweet  song  dietli 
Into  the  wild  summer  air. 

Whither  it  falleth  or  flieth  ? 
Soon  wiiuld  my  answer  be  noted 
Wert  thou  but  sage  as  sweet-throated. 

Melody,  dying  away, 

Into  the  dark  sky  closes. 
Like  the  good  soul  from  her  clay 
Like  tlie  fair  odour  of  roses  ; 
Therefore  thou  now  art  behind  it, 
But  thou  shalt  follow,  and  find  it." 

Two    stanzas  were  afterwards   added,   but  without 
improving  tlie  song : 

"  Nothing  can  utterly  die  : 
Music  aloft  up-springing 
Turns  to  pure  atoms  of  sky 

Each  golden  note  of  thy  singing  : 
And  that  to  which  morning  did  listen 
At  eve  in  a  rainbow  may  glisten. 

Beauty  when  laid  in  the  grave 
Feedeth  the  lily  beside  her, 
Therefore  her  soul  cannot  have 
Station  or  honour  denied  her  ; 
She  will  not  better  her  essence. 
But  wear  a  crown  in  God's  i)rt'sence." 

FitzOerald  was  reading  at  the  time  Ilazlitt's  7V/.-;, 


14  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

and  his  letters  are  full  of  allusions  to  old  English 
lyrists — such  writers  as  Carew,  Wotton,  Donne,  and 
Fletcher.  But  the  wonder  is  that  a  man  who  at  such 
an  age  could  write  such  original,  mature,  and  well- 
proportioned  lyrics,  should  not  have  cared  to  pursue 
the  quest.  His  other  scattered  lyrics,  which  it  is  as 
well  to  summarise  here,  are  a  little  "Elegy  to  Anne 
Allen,"  sister  of  his  friend,  who  died  in  1830;  "The 
Old  Beau"  and  "The  Merchant's  Daughter "  (1834), 
the  former  of  which  is  a  pretty  poem  of  the  school  of 
Praed;  "Bredfield  Hall"  (1839),  which  he  himself 
rated  highly,  but  which  is  nothing  more  than  a 
languid  Tennysonian  lyric,  with  several  metrical 
lapses,  " Chronomoros "  (probably  about  1840),  a 
somewhat  jingling  melody,  with  a  philosophical 
motive;  a  tiny  idyll,  "Virgil's  Garden,"  a  paraphrase 
of  the  passage  from  the  Fourth  Georgic  about  the 
Corycian  old  man,  a  sonnet  translated  from  Petrarch, 
a  verse  "To  a  Violet,^'  and  some  wretched  memorial 
lines  to  Bernard  Barton  (1849). 

We  get  glimpses  of  FitzGerald  in  these  early  years 
wandering  like  the  Scholar-Gipsy.  Now  he  is  in 
London  buying  books  ;  now  he  is  staying  at  Tenby  with 
the  Aliens.  From  this  last  visit  dates  one  of  the  most 
romantic  friendships  of  FitzGerald's  life.  This  new 
friend  was  a  young  fellow,  William  Kenworthy  Browne 
by  name,  son  of  a  Bedford  alderman.  He  was  fond 
of  amusement,  a  keen  rider,  a  good  shot,  a  fisherman, 
a  billiard  player,  but  with  an  affectionate  disposition, 
and  a  great  fund  of  sterling  common-sense ;  moreover, 
not  averse  to  books  and  literature,  when  pleasantly 
interpreted.  FitzGerald,  writing  more  than  twenty- 
three  years  after  to  Mrs.  Allen,  said  : — 

"I  owe  to  Tenby  the  chance  acquaintance  of  another  Person 
who  now  from  that  hour  remains  one  of  my  very  best  Friends. 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  15 

A  Lad — then  just  16 — whom  I  met  on  hoard  the  Packet 
from  Bristol :  and  next  morning  at  the  Boarding  House — apt 
then  to  appear  with  a  little  chalk  on  the  edge  of  his  Cheek 
from  a  touch  of  the  Billiard  Table  Cue— and  now  a  man  of  40 
— Farmer,  Magistrate,  Militia  Officer — Father  of  a  Family — 
of  more  use  in  a  week  than  I  in  my  Life  long.  You  too  have 
six  sons,  your  Letter  tells  me.  They  may  do  worse  than  do 
as  well  as  he  I  have  spoken  of,  though  he  too  has  sown  some 
wild  oats,  and  paid  for  doing  so." 

He  went  in  1834  to  stay  with  the  Brownes  at 
Cauldwell  House  in  Cauldwell  Street,  Bedford,  and 
hardly  a  year  passed  until  Browne's  marriage  with- 
out one  or  more  of  these  visits.  It  Avell  illustrates 
FitzGerald's  power  of  inspiring  and  maintaining  a 
friendship,  that  so  close  a  tie  should  have  existed 
between  two  natures  that  would  not  have  appeared  at 
first  sight  congenial ;  and  it  also  illustrates  FitzGerald's 
marvellous  power  of  taking  people  as  he  found  them, 
and  loving  them  for  what  they  were,  with  no  desire  to 
mould  them  to  his  own  will. 

Another  of  FitzGerald's  chief  friends  and  associates 
in  earl}'  years  was  Bernard  Barton,  a  Quaker,  who  had 
l)een  for  a  short  time  in  business  in  Woodbridge,  l)ut  in 
1808  became  a  clerk  in  Messrs.  Alexander's  bank  there. 
He  was  a  most  industrious  composer  of  verse,  only 
remarkable  for  its  firm  grasp  of  the  obvious,  which  yet 
from  its  homely  sentiment  and  domestic  piety  attained 
a  certain  ^'ogue,  and  gave  Barton  a  temporary  position 
in  the  literary  world.  Barton  was,  moreover,  a  great 
letter-writer,  and  corresponded  regularly  with  several 
eminent  authors.  Some  of  Charles  Lamb's  most 
delightful  letters  are  written  to  him.  Bernard  Bar- 
ton's health  was  at  one  time  considerably  affected  by 
his  sedentaiy  life ;  after  working  in  the  bank  all  day, 
he  would  spend  the  evening  writing  verse,  and  sit  up 


16  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

to  a  late  hour  finishing  a  poem.  His  letters  to  his 
friends  are  full  of  complaints  of  headache  and  low 
spirits.  Southey  gave  him  excellent  advice  in  return, 
recommending  him  to  go  early  to  bed  and  avoid 
suppers.  Charles  Lamb,  in  his  most  characteristic 
vein,  blended  advice  with  fantastic  rhetoric : — 

"You  are  much  too  apprehensive,"  he  wrote,  "about 
your  complaint.  I  know  many  that  are  always  ailing 
of  it,  and  live  on  to  a  good  old  age.  .  .  .  Believe  the 
general  sense  of  the  mercantile  world,  which  holds 
that  desks  are  not  deadly.  It  is  the  mind,  good  B.  B., 
and  not  the  limb.s,  that  faints  by  long  sitting.  Think 
of  the  patience  of  tailors — think  how  long  the  Lord 
Chancellor  sits — think  of  the  brooding  hen." 

At  another  time  Bernard  Barton  ainiounced  his 
intention  of  giving  up  his  post  and  earning  a  liveli- 
hood by  writing.  Charles  Lamb  replied  in  a  charming 
letter  expressiiig  the  utmost  horror  at  the  idea: — 
"Keep  to  your  bank,  and  the  bank  will  keep  you. 
...  0  the  corroding,  torturing,  tormenting  thoughts 
that  disturb  the  brain  of  the  unlucky  wight,  who 
must  draw  upon  it  for  daily  sustenance  !  Henceforth  I 
retract  all  my  fond  complaints  of  mercantile  employ- 
ment ;  look  ;ipon  them  as  lovers'  quarrels.  I  was  but 
half  in  earnest.  Welcome  dead  timber  of  a  desk,  that 
makes  me  live  ! " 

Bernard  Barton's  position  was,  however,  made  easier 
by  a  gift  of  £1200  from  some  wealthy  Quakers  and 
relations  of  his  own;  and  in  1845  Sir  Eobert  Peel, 
after  asking  him  to  dinner  in  Whitehall,  procured  for 
him  a  Civil  List  pension  of  £100  a  j-ear.  Barton 
wrote  far  too  much  and  corrected  far  too  little  to  attain 
to  any  permanent  position  in  poetry.  FitzGerald,  Avho 
wrote  a  brief  memoir  of  Barton  after  his  death,  said 
that  there  was  a  kind  of  youthful  impetuosity  about 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  17 

hiiu  which  could  not  be  restrained.  He  was  as  eager 
for  every  one  else  to  write  verse  as  he  was  to  write  it 
himself ;  he  had  no  envy,  and  would  scarcely  admit  a 
fault  in  the  verses  of  others,  whether  private  friends  or 
public  authors.  Barton  lived  a  simple  life  with  his 
only  daughter,  devoted  to  literature  of  a  higher  kind ; 
FitzGerald  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house ;  and 
there  must  have  been  a  great  charm  about  the  old 
Quaker,  the  charm  of  unembarrassed  simplicity.  His 
gentle  egotism,  his  unaffected  enthusiasm  made  him  a 
welcome  visitor  alike  at  Whitehall  and  in  a  country 
cottage. 

FitzGerald,  who  was  alive  to  his  weaknesses,  describes 
him  as  "a  very  strange  character;  a  good-natured  and 
benevolent  person,  with  a  good  deal  of  pride  and 
caution,  with  a  pretence  at  humility ;  perverse,  formal, 
strict,  plain,  and  unpresuming  in  his  dress — a  great 
many  contradictions  of  character,"  and  again  he  spoke 
of  Barton  as  "  looking  very  demurely  to  tlie  necessaiy 
end  of  life." 

In  1835  FitzGerald  paid  a  memorable  visit  to  the 
home  of  his  friend,  James  Spedding,  at  Mirehouse, 
near  Bassenthwaite  Lake,  under  Skiddaw,  Teiniyson 
l)eing  his  fellow-guest. 

The  friends  rambled  about,  talked,  smoked  and  read. 
Late  at  night  in  the  silent  house  Tennyson  would 
declaim,  in  a  Aoice  like  the  murmur  of  a  pinewood, 
out  of  a  little  red  l)0(3k,  some  of  the  ])oems  afterwards 
to  become  immortal.  Spedding  was  not  allowed  to 
read  aloud,  because  Tennyson  said  that  he  read  too 
much  as  if  he  had  l)ees  about  liis  mouth.  Old  Mi-. 
Spedding  showed  a  courteous  contem})t,  the  contempt 
of  a  practical  man,  for  the  whole  Imsiiiess.  "Well, 
Mr.  FitzGerald,"  he  would  .say,  "and  what  is  it? 
.Mr.  Tennyson   i-eads   and  .lini   criticises,  is  that  it?" 

]; 


18  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Tennyson  refused  to  visit  Wordsworth,  although  he 
was  constantly  reading  and  quoting  from  his  poems ; 
"I  could  not  get  Alfred  to  Rydal  Mount,"  Spedding 
AiTotc.  "  He  would  and  would  not  (sulky  one),  although 
Wordsworth  was  hospitably  inclined  towards  him." 

Both  Spedding  and  FitzGerald  amused  themselves 
by  making  sketches  of  Tennyson,  and  these  highly 
interesting  and  obviously  faithful  delineations  are 
reproduced  in  Lord  Tennyson's  Life  of  his  father. 
After  leaving  Mirehouse,  FitzGerald  and  Tennyson 
went  on  together  to  Ambleside,  where  they  stayed  a 
week.  FitzGerald  thus  wrote  of  his  companion  to 
Allen  :— 

"  I  will  say  no  more  of  Tennyson  than  that  the  more  I  have 
seen  of  him,  the  more  cause  I  have  to  think  him  great.  His 
little  humours  and  grumpinesses  were  so  droll  that  I  was 
always  laugliing  :  and  was  often  put  in  mind  (strange  to  say) 
of  my  little  unknown  friend.  Undine — I  must  however  say, 
further,  that  I  felt  what  Charles  Lamb  describes,  a  sense  of 
depression  at  times  from  the  overshadowing  of  a  so  much 
more  lofty  intellect  than  my  own  :  this  (though  it  may  seem 
vain  to  say  so)  I  never  expei'ienced  before,  though  I  have 
often  been  with  much  greater  intellects  :  but  I  could  not  be 
mistaken  in  the  universality  of  his  mind  ;  and  perhaps  I  have 
received  some  benefit  in  the  now  more  distinct  consciousness 
of  my  dwarfishness." 

In  July  1835,  one  Mrs.  Short,  of  Boulge  Hall, 
Woodbridge,  died.  Mr.  John  FitzGerald  had  purchased 
the  property  some  time  before,  subject  to  Mrs.  Short's 
life-interest.  He  now  determined  to  move  to  Boulge, 
and  Wherstead,  which  had  been  a  happy  home  for  ten 
years,  was  accordingly  relinquished.  Boulge  Hall  is  a 
spacious  Queen  Anne  house,  with  a  fine  garden,  not 
far  from  the  White  House  where  FitzGerald  was  born. 
He  describes  it  as  standing  in  one  of  the  ugliest 
and  dullest  stretches  of  country  in  England  :  but  it 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  19 

has  a  compensation  in  the  rich  meadow-lands  full  of 
flowers,  and  the  slow  sti'eam  of  the  river  Deben, 
widening  to  its  estuary.  Hard  by  is  the  flint  church 
with  its  brick  tower,  under  the  shadow  of  which 
FitzGerald  was  to  be  laid  to  his  final  rest.  About  the 
same  time  a  friend  of  his  was  appointed  to  the  living 
of  Bredfield.  This  was  George  Crabbe  the  second,  son 
of  the  poet,  and  father  of  George  Crabbe  the  third,  in 
whose  rectory  of  Merton  in  Norfolk  FitzGerald  was 
eventually  to  die. 

Crabbe  was  a  bluif,  loval)lc,  sensible  man ;  heroic, 
noble-minded,  rash  in  judgment  and  act,  liable  to 
sudden  and  violent  emotions,  and  morbidly  self-dis- 
trustful, though  over-confident  in  the  success  of  causes 
near  his  heart,  with  simple  habits  and  a  Cervantic 
humour. 

FitzGerald  thus  doscril)cs  him  in  one  of  the  last 
letters  he  wrote  : — 

"...  If  you  can  easily  lay  hand  on  my  old  Friend  Goorjfe 
Craljbe's  Life  of  liis  Father  the  Poet,  do  read  his  account  of  a 
family  Travel  from  Leicestersliire  to  Suflblk,  and  the  visit 
they  paid  there  to  your  friend  Mr.  Tovell.  You  will  find  it 
some  dozen  pa^e.s  on  in  Chapter  vi. — a  real  Dutch  Literior, 
done  with  someiliing  of  the  Father's  pencil — but  quite  unin- 
tentionally so  ;  my  old  George  rather  hating  Poetry- — as  he 
called  Verse — except  Shakespeare,  Young's  Night  Tlioiiyhts, 
and  Thomson's  Seasons  ;  and  never  having  read  his  Father's 
from  the  time  of  editing  it  in  IS'.i-l  till  drawn  to  them  by  me 
a  dozen  years  after.  Not  but  what  he  loved  and  admired  his 
father  in  every  shape  but  that.'' 

The  old  vicar  was  fond  of  flowers  and  trees,  and 
pleased  FitzGeiald  by  ciying  out,  when  he  heard  of 
the  felling  of  some  oaks  by  a  neighbouring  landowner, 
"How  scandalously  they  misuse  the  globe  !  "  He  was 
just  the  sort  of  man,  with   his  oddities  and  sti'ongly 


20  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

marked  characteristics,  to  attract  FitzGerald.  Crabbe 
used  to  pray  aloud  for  his  beloved  flock,  "including 
Mary  Ann  Cuthbert,"  a  person  of  doubtful  reputation. 
His  daughters  were  obliged  to  empty  his  pockets  of  all 
spare  cash  for  fear  of  his  giving  it  away  to  beggars. 
He  would  sit  smoking  and  meditating  in  a  horrible 
little  room  smelling  like  an  inn-parlour,  and  reeking 
with  tobacco,  which  FitzGerald  called  "the  Cobblery," 
from  the  fact  that  Mr.  Crabbe  there  patched  up  his 
sermons.  The  FitzGeralds  went  in  and  out  of  the 
house  unannounced,  and  always  welcomed.  "  We 
children,"  wrote  one  of  the  younger  Miss  Crabbes, 
"Avere  proud  if  he  [Edward  FitzGerald]  let  any  of  us 
do  anything  for  him,  or  if  we  were  allowed  by  our 
father  or  sisters  to  go  and  call  him  in  to  lunch,  but  he 
was  sure  not  to  come  if  called,  though  he  would  come 
if  not  called." 

In  1837  FitzGerald,  feeling  a  desire  to  have  a  den 
of  his  own,  took  up  his  abode  in  a  thatched  lodge  or 
cottage,  containing  two  rooms,  standing  l)y  the  gate 
of  Boulge  Park.  Here,  with  Shakespeare's  bust  in  a 
recess,  with  a  cat,  a  dog,  and  a  parrot  called  "  Beauty 
Bob,"  he  began  what  he  called  a  very  pleasant 
Robinson  Crusoe  sort  of  life.  He  was  waited  upon 
by  an  old  couple,  John  Faiers,  a  labourer  on  the 
estate,  a  Waterloo  veteran,  and  Mrs.  Faiers,  a  red- 
armed,  vain,  and  snuff-taking  lady,  with  a  flower- 
trimmed  bonnet.  FitzGerald  installed  his  books  and 
pictures  in  the  cottage.  The  place  Avas  a  scene  of 
desperate  confusion.  There  were  l)ooks  everywhere; 
pictures  on  easels ;  music,  pipes,  sticks,  lying  on  tables 
or  on  the  piano.  A  barrel  of  beer  provided  the  means 
of  simple  conviviality.  Here  FitzGerald  would  sit, 
unkempt  and  unshaven,  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
or  moon  al)out  in  the  trardcn.     He  strolled  about  the 


I.  EARLY  YEARS  21 

neighbourhood,  calling  on  his  friends ;  sometimes,  but 
rarely,  he  went  to  church,  noting  the  toadstools  that 
grew  in  the  chancel ;  and  led  a  thoroughly  indolent 
life,  though  with  dreams  of  literary  ambition.  "He 
is  in  a  state,"  wrote  Spcdding  in  1838,  "of  disgraceful 
indifterence  to  everything  except  grass  and  fresh  air. 
What  will  become  of  him  in  this  world  1"  A  picture 
which  he  draws  of  his  life  at  this  time  to  his  friend 
Allen  is  very  delicately  touched  : — 

"  Here  I  liye  with  tolerable  content :  perhaps  with  as  much 
as  most  people  arrive  at,  and  what  if  one  were  properly  ^^rate- 
ful  one  would  perhaps  call  perfect  happiness.  Here  is  a 
glorious  sunshiny  day  :  all  the  morning  I  read  about  Nero  in 
Tacitus  lying  at  full  length  on  a  bench  in  the  garden  :  a 
nightingale  singing,  and  some  red  anemones  eyeing  the  sun 
manfully  not  far  otf.  A  funny  mixture  all  this  :  Nero,  and 
the  delicacy  of  Spring  :  all  very  human,  however.  Then  at 
half-past  one  lunch  on  CaniVjridge  cream  cheese  :  then  a  ride 
over  hill  and  dale  :  then  spudding  uj)  some  weeds  from  the 
grass  :  and  then  coming  in,  I  sit  down  to  write  to  you,  my 
sister  winding  red  worsted  from  the  hack  of  a  chair,  and  the 
most  delightful  little  girl  in  the  world  chattering  incessantly. 
So  runs  the  world  away.  You  think  I  live  in  Epicurean 
ease  :  but  tliis  happens  to  be  a  jolly  day  :  one  isn't  always 
well,  or  toler;tl)ly  good,  the  weather  is  not  always  clear,  nor 
nightingales  singing,  nor  Tacitus  full  of  ])loasant  atrocity. 
But  such  as  life  is,  I  believe  I  have  got  hold  nf  a  good  end 
of  it.  .   .  ." 

In  the  summer  Fitzderald  gciu>rally  went  off  to  visit 
Browiu!  at  Bedford,  and  there  spent  long  days  in  the 
open  air,  rambling  al)0ut  and  fishing.  His  moods  were 
not  always  serene  ;  with  a  kind  of  feminine  jealousy 
which  was  mingled  with  his  nature  he  would  make 
snappish  and  acrimonious  retorts  to  Browne's  most 
innocent  remarks,  repenting  of  them  moist-eyed,  and 
saying   ''I   hate   myself   for   them.'     The   thought  of 


22  EDWAlll)  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

leaving  BroAvne  used  to  weigh  on  him  for  days.  "  All 
this  must  have  an  end,"  he  Avrote,  "  and,  as  is  usual, 
my  pleasure  in  Browne's  stay  is  proportionately 
darkened  hy  the  anticipation  of  his  going.  .  .  .  Well, 
Carlylc  told  us  that  Ave  are  not  to  expect  to  be  happy." 
In  this  mood  he  Avould  go  to  London  for  distraction, 
and  find  himself  longing  for  the  country ;  he  wrote  to 
Bernard  Barton  : — 

"  A  cloud  comes  over  Charlotte  Street,  and  seems  as  if  it 
were  sailing  softly  on  the  April  wind  to  fall  in  a  blessed 
shower  upon  the  lilac  buds  and  thirsty  anemones  somewliere 
in  Essex  :  or,  who  knows  ?  perhaps  at  Boulge.  Out  will  run 
Mrs.  Faiers,  and  with  red  arms  and  face  of  Avoe  liaul  in  the 
struggling  windows  of  the  cottage,  and  make  all  tight.  Beauty 
Bob  will  cast  a  bird's  eye  out  at  the  shower,  and  bless  the 
useful  wet.  Mr.  Loder  will  observe  to  the  farmer  for  whom 
he  is  doing  up  a  dozen  of  Queen's  Heads,  that  it  will  bo  of 
great  use  :  and  the  farmer  will  agree  that  liis  young  barleys 
wanted  it  much.  The  German  Ocean  will  dimple  with  in- 
numerable pin  points,  and  porpoises  rolling  near  the  surface 
sneeze  with  unusual  pellets  of  fresh  water — 

*  Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer  cloud. 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?  ' " 

And  again  to  Frederic  Tennyson,  after  escaping  to 
Boulge  : — 

"  But  one  finds  few  in  London  seriouf;  men  :  I  mean  serious 
even  in  fun  ;  with  a  true  purpose  and  character  whatsoever  it 
may  be.  London  melts  away  all  individuality  into  a  common 
lump  of  cleverness.  I  am  amazed  at  the  humour  and  worth 
and  noble  feeling  in  the  country,  however  much  railroads  have 
mixed  us  up  with  metroi)olitan  civilisation.  I  can  still  find 
the  heart  of  England  beating  healthily  down  here,  though  no 
one  will  believe  it. 

"  You  know  my  way  of  life  so  well  that  I  need  not  describe 
it  to  you,  as  it  has  undergone  no  change  since  I  saw  you.     I 


I.]  EARLY  YEARS  23 

read  of  mornings  ;  the  same  old  books  over  and  over  again, 
having  no  command  of  new  ones  :  walk  with  my  great 
black  dog  of  an  afternoon,  and  at  evening  sit  with  open 
windows,  \ip  to  which  China  roses  climb,  with  my  pipe,  while 
the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  begin  to  rustle  bedwards  in  the 
garden,  and  the  nightingale  to  have  the  neighbourhood  to 
herself.  We  have  had  such  a  spring  (bating  the  last  ten  days) 
as  would  have  satisfied  even  you  with  warmth.  And  such 
verdure  !  white  clouds  moving  over  the  new-fledged  tops  of 
oak-trees,  and  acres  of  grass  striving  with  buttercups.  How 
old  to  tell  of,  how  new  to  see  !  " 

At  this  time  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Samuel 
Laurence,  the  portrait-painter,  whom  he  afterwards 
employed  to  paint  some  of  his  friends'  portraits  for 
him;  "a  dear  little  fellow,"  wrote  FitzGerald,  "a 
gentleman — made  of  nature's  very  finest  clay — the 
most  obstinate  little  man — iiicorrigi])lc,  who  wearies  out 
those  who  Avish  most  to  serve  him,  and  so  spoils  his 
own  fortune." 

FitzGerald  also  found  time,  if  tradition  is  to  l)e 
believed,  to  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Caroline  Crabbe, 
the  daughter  of  his  old  friend  the  Vicar.  It  is  to  be 
wished  that  this  romance  had  had  a  normal  ending. 
But  it  seems  that  Miss  Cral)l)e  was  alarmed  at  Fitz- 
Gerald's  religious  views,  which  were  becoming  more 
and  more  indefinite ;  moreover,  though  FitzGerald  was 
rich  enough  to  dawdle,  he  was  hardly  rich  enough  to 
support  a  wife.  The  girl  too  was  needed  at  honie, 
being  the  eldest  of  a  large  family  ;  and  she  accordingly 
refused  him  ;  but  remained  a  dear  and  valued  friend, 
and  was  one  of  the  party  assembled  at  Merton  when 
FitzGerald  died. 


CHAPTER  II 

MIDDLE   LIFE 

The  years  passed  slowly  and  easily,  while  FitzGerald 
flitted  hither  and  thither  like  a  great  shy  moth.  Now 
he  is  in  Dublin  with  Browne,  staying  with  some 
Purcell  cousins  ;  now  he  is  at  Edgeworthstown,  sitting 
in  the  library,  while  Miss  Maria,  neat,  dapper,  grey- 
haired,  thin  and  pale,  aged  seventy-two,  sits  writing 
at  the  table  or  making  a  catalogue  of  her  books,  quite 
undisturbed  by  the  general  conversation.  Now  he  is 
in  London,  getting  on  very  well,  as  he  writes,  with  his 
majestic  mother,  "  by  help  of  meeting  very  little." 
He  goes  out  a  drive  with  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
Tennyson,  a  precious  carriage-full.  Dickens  he  finds 
"unaffected  and  hospitable,"  but  sees  nothing  in  his 
face  which  would  indicate  genius,  except  "a  certain 
acute  cut  of  the  upper  eyelid."  Or  he  would  wander 
farther  afield  with  an  old  friend.  In  the  company  of 
Tennyson  he  visited  Stratford-on-Avon  in  1840. 
FitzGerald  was  more  moved  by  the  sight  of  the  old 
footpath  to  Shottery,  so  often  trodden  by  Shakespeare, 
than  by  the  sight  of  his  house  or  his  tomb. 

From  the  year  1842  dates  FitzGerald's  fiiendship 
with  Carlyle,  or  "Gurlyle,"  as  he  appears  in  many  of 
FitzGcrald's  letters,  being  so  named  by  Thackeray, 
who  was  never  content  till  he  had  transformed  his 
friends'  names  into  some  more  conversational  form. 
It  appears  that  Carlyle  and  Dr.  Arnold  had  visited 

24 


CHAP.  II.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  25 

the  field  of  Naseby  a  short  time  before,  in  order  to 
provide  accurate  materials  for  Carlyle's  Cromwell. 
Misled  by  an  obelisk  erected  by  FitzGerald's  father  to 
mark  the  highest  ground,  which  they  took  to  com- 
memorate the  scene  of  the  hottest  engagement,  they 
had  surveyed  with  complete  satisfaction,  not  the  battle- 
field at  all,  but  a  tract  of  adjacent  country,  and  had 
identified,  erroneously  but  without  misgiving,  all  the 
recorded  topography.  The  incident  casts  a  lurid  light 
upon  historical  research  conducted  in  situ.  FitzGerald 
called  upon  Carlyle  in  1842,  under  the  wing  of 
Thackera\%  and,  as  the  greater  part  of  the  battlefield 
belonged  to  his  father,  was  able  to  enlighten  the  his- 
torian as  to  the  blunder  that  had  been  made.  Guided 
by  local  tradition,  FitzGerald  conducted  some  exca- 
vations at  Naseby,  and  found  the  remains  of  many 
skeletons  closely  packed  together.  In  the  intervals  of 
his  task  he  read  the  Grorgics,  and  watched  the  horses 
plodding  and  clanking  out  to  the  harvest-fields,  up  the 
lanes  with  their  richly  twined  tapestries  of  briony  and 
bind-wecd, 

Carlyle  was  much  excited  by  the  discoveries  ;  "  the 
opening  of  the  burial-heap,"  he  wrote,  "blazes  strangely 
in  my  thoughts ;  there  are  the  very  jaw-bones  that 
were  clenched  together  in  deadly  rage,  on  this  very 
ground  one  hundred  and  ninety-seven  years  ago !  It 
brings  the  niattei'  lionie  to  one,  with  a  strange  voracity 
— as  if  for  the  first  time  one  saw  it  to  be  no  fa])le,  and 
theoiT,  but  a  diie  fact."  "  ^^  Iiy  does  the  obelisk 
stand  there  1  It  miglit  as  well  stand  at  Cliarini;'  Cross  ; 
the  blockhead  that  it  is.'' 

liut  the  task  of  excavation  was  not  much  to  Fitz- 
(icrald's  taste.  "  I  don't  care  much  for  all  this  bone- 
rummaging  myself,"'  he  wrote  to  Bernartl  Barton,  and 
again  in  the  same  letter,  of  the  luicovcred  dead  : — 


26  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

"  In  the  mean  time  let  the  full  harvest  moon  wonder  at 
them  as  they  lie  turned  up  after  lying  hid  2400  revolutions 
of  hers.  Think  of  that  warm  14th  of  June  when  the  Battle 
was  fought,  and  they  fell  pell-mell ;  and  then  the  country 
people  came  and  buried  them  so  shallow  that  the  stench  was 
terrible,  and  the  putrid  matter  oozed  over  the  ground  for 
several  yards  ;  so  that  the  cattle  were  observed  to  eat  those 
places  very  close  for  some  years  after." 

Carlyle  desired  that  a  block  of  stone  should  be 
erected  over  the  grave,  bearing  the  words,  "  Here,  as 
proved  by  strict  and  not  too  impious  examination,  lie 
the  slain  of  the  Battle  of  Naseby,"  but  the  project  was 
never  carried  out. 

At  this  time  FitzGerald  saw  a  good  deal  of  a  curious 
and  interesting  character,  whose  religious  enthusiasm 
made  a  strong  impression  on  him.  John  FitzGerald, 
Edward's  eldest  brother,  an  eccentric  man  of  great 
earnestness,  was  mainly  occupied  in  evangelistic 
work,  and  not  only  held  services  at  Boulge,  but 
made  itinerant  tours  about  the  country,  inspired  by 
the  most  fantastic  zeal  for  lecturing  his  fellow-men 
on  their  duty,  and  threatening  the  impenitent  with 
all  the  terrors  of  hell.  He  thus  became  a  close 
friend  of  the  Eev.  Timothy  Richard  Matthews,  origin- 
ally a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  but  at 
this  time  residing  at  Bedford,  and  holding  services 
in  a  proprietary  Chapel.  Matthews  was  a  man  of 
indomitable  energy  and  primitive  faith.  "  He  believed 
in  Jesus  Christ,"  wrote  FitzGerald,  "and  had  no  mis- 
givings whatever."  He  often  preached  in  the  open 
air,  in  black  gown  and  bands,  blowing  a  trumpet  to 
attract  a  crowd  Sometimes  he  would  hold  baptismal 
services  at  a  reservoir  near  Nasoby,  belonging  to  a 
Canal  Company,  and  immerse  converts,  in  company 
with  John  FitzGerald ;  or  he  would  anoint  the  sick 


n.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  27 

with  oil,  or  pray  ineffectually  over  a  deaf  person, 
putting  clown  the  failure  to  restore  hearing  to  a 
deficieney  of  faith.  He  was  a  man  of  vivid  and  i)ithy 
talk.  "John,  be  sure  you  are  in  the  first  resurrec- 
tion," he  said  to  John  Linnet,  the  vigorous  gardener 
of  the  FitzGeralds  at  Naseby.  FitzGerald  often 
attended  his  services  at  Bedford,  and  hankered  regret- 
fully after  such  unquestioning  faith  as  animated 
Matthews.  "His  sermons,"  he  writes,  "shook  my 
soul."  Indeed,  under  the  influence  of  this  fervent 
Christian,  FitzGcrald  came  as  near  what  is  technically 
called  experiencing  religion  as  his  nature  admitted. 
He  wrote : — 

"  Oh  this  wonderful  wonderful  world,  and  we  who  stand  in 
the  middle  of  it  are  in  a  maze,  except  poor  Matthews  of  Bed- 
ford, who  iixes  his  eyes  upon  a  wooden  Cross  and  has  no 
misgiving  whatsoever.  When  I  was  at  his  chapel  on  Good 
Friday,  he  called  at  the  end  of  his  grand  sermon  on  some  of 
the  people  to  say  merely  this,  that  they  believed  Christ  had 
redeemed  them  ;  and  first  one  pot  up  and  in  sobs  declared 
she  believed  it ;  and  then  another,  and  then  another — I  was 
quite  overset — all  poor  people  :  how  much  richer  than  all  who 
fill  the  London  Churches." 

The  pleasant  Bedford  days  were  drawing  to  a 
close.  Browne  became  engaged,  and  in  1814  was 
married  ;  he  took  up  bis  al>ode  at  Goldiiigton  Hall,  two 
miles  north  of  l^edford,  a  house  filled  with  furniture 
that  had  belonged  to  Mrs.  Pioz/J.  But  Goldiiigton, 
in  spite  of  forebodings,  became  a  second  home  to 
FitzGcrald ;  and  with  his  easy  geniality  he  made 
friends  with  ail  the  oddities  in  the  neighbourhood, 
Mr.  Monkhouse,  an  athletic  antiquarian  clergyman, 
and  Captain  Addington,  who  kept  innumerable  cats 
in  his  Turnpike  Cottage. 

In   1845   Matthews  died   suddenlv  ;   FitzGcrald,    re- 


28  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

turning  to  Bedford,  saw  his  coffin  being  carried  along 
the  street.  John  FitzGerald  delivered  the  funeral 
sermon.  He  continued  for  some  time  to  keep  up 
Matthews's  work  at  Bedford,  but  his  sermons  were  of 
inordinate  length,  and  he  lacked  the  unction  of  the 
true  evangelist.  Edward  was  keenly  alive  to  the  gro- 
tesque side  of  his  brother's  character.  "  I  wish  my 
brother  wouldn't  always  be  talking  about  religion,"  he 
said ;  and  on  one  occasion  remarked  that  when  his 
brother  wrote  D.V.  in  his  letters,  with  reference  to 
a  proposed  arrangement,  as  he  habitually  did,  it  only 
meant  "if  I  happen  to  be  in  the  humour."  It  seems 
indeed  as  if  John  FitzGerald's  eccentricity  verged  on 
insanity ;  when  he  preached  or  even  when  he  listened 
to  sermons,  he  was  accustomed  to  remove  certain 
articles  of  dress  such  as  boots  and  stockings,  and  put 
the  contents  of  his  pockets  on  the  seat  of  the  pew, 
in  order  to  make  himself  quite  comfortable.  At  in- 
tervals during  the  discourse  he  would  whistle  shrilly, 
which  was  a  sign  of  satisfaction.  It  would  appear 
that  he  regarded  his  brother  as  a  vessel  of  wrath, 
yet  made  no  serious  attempt  to  convert  him ;  but 
in  whatever  form  Edward  FitzGerald  was  touched  by 
religion — and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Matthews  brought 
him  as  near  to  revivalism  as  he  was  likely  to  go — the 
perception  of  his  jjrother's  absurdities  made  the  ac- 
ceptance of  so  violent  and  precise  a  creed  a  ludicrous 
impossil»ilitv. 

At  this  time  the  pivot  on  which  FitzGerald's  life 
turned  was  the  Boulge  Cottage.  He  was  fond  of 
inviting  Barton  and  Crablie  there,  calling  them  the 
wits  of  Woodbridge ;  or  in  his  blue  serge  suit,  cut 
very  loose,  he  would  stroll  up  to  the  Hall  farm,  where 
his  friend  Mr.  Job  Smith  lived,  and  smoke  a  clay  pipe 
in  the  big  kitchen,  reading  the  paper,  or  holding  his 


11.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  29 

prot^g^,  Alfred  Smith,  the  farmer's  son,  between  his 
knees.  He  wrote  of  himself  in  a  strain  of  exaggerated 
pettishness  to  Frederic  Tennyson,  who  had  written 
complaining  that  Fitzgerald's  letters  were  dull : — 

"  What  is  a  poor  devil  to  do  1  You  tell  me  quite  truly  that 
my  letters  have  not  two  ideas  in  them,  and  yet  you  tell  nie  to 
Avrite  my  two  ideas  as  soon  as  I  can.  So  indeed  it  is  so  far 
easy  to  write  down  one's  two  ideas,  if  they  are  not  very 
abstruse  ones  ;  but  then  what  the  devil  encouragement  is  it  to 
a  poor  fellow  to  expose  his  nakedness  so  ? 

"...  But  you  see  the  original  fault  in  me  is  that  I  choose 
to  be  in  such  a  place  as  this  at  all ;  that  argues  certainly  a 
talent  for  dullness  which  no  situation  nor  intercourse  of  men 
could  much  improve.  It  is  true ;  I  really  do  like  to  sit  in 
this  doleful  place  with  a  good  fire,  a  cat  and  dog  on  the  rug, 
and  an  old  woman  in  the  kitchen.  This  is  all  my  live-stock. 
The  house  is  yet  damp  as  last  year ;  and  the  great  event  of 
thi.s  winter  is  my  putting  up  a  trough  round  the  eaves  to  carry 
oft"  the  wot.  There  was  discussion  whether  the  trough  should 
be  of  iron  or  of  zinc  :  iron  dear  and  lasting  ;  zinc  the  reverse. 
It  was  decided  (ov  iron  ;  and  accordingly  iron  is  put  uj)." 

But  in  184G  he  formed  another  of  his  great  friend- 
ships. This  was  with  E.  B.  Cowcll,  afterwards 
Professor  of  Sanskrit  at  Cambridge,  then  a  young 
man  of  twenty,  son  of  an  Ipswich  corn-merchant. 
Though  ])rought  up  to  })usiiiess,  Cowell  had  developed 
an  assiduous  taste  for  reading,  had  learned  Latin, 
Sanskrit,  and  Pei-siaii ;  he  had  finally  become  engaged 
to  a  lady  several  years  older  than  himself,  a  Miss 
Charlesworth,  with  some  small  means  at  her  disposal, 
ami  mari'ied  her.  Cowell  was  a  shy,  modest,  humorous 
nuui,  simph'-minded  and  deeply  religious,  with  an  im- 
mense and  catholic  enthusiasm  for  literature,  but  with 
no  great  gifts  of  expi'ession.  It  was  he  that  introduced 
FitzGerald  to  Omai-  Khayyam. 

Cowell   said   humorously   of   himself  that  his  chief 


30  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

function  was  to  encourage  other  people  to  work.  His 
great  power  as  a  teacher  lay  in  his  own  enthusiasm, 
and  also  in  the  fact  that  his  marvellous  memory  gave 
him  an  extraordinary  facility  in  suggesting  parallel 
passages  and  illustrations  from  a  large  variety  of 
authors.  "What  have  you  been  reading,"  wrote 
FitzGerald  to  him  in  1846,  "and  what  taste  of  rare 
authors  have  you  to  send  me  1 " 

Cowell's  devotion  to  Sanskrit  was  such  that  he 
utilised  the  frequent  letters  imposed  upon  him  by  the 
exigencies  of  courtship  as  a  vehicle  for  teaching  his 
fiancee  the  language,  as  well  as  an  opportunity  of 
becoming  better  acquainted  with  it  himself.  He 
was  now  living  at  a  cottage  at  Bramford,  near 
Ipswich ;  and  the  time  that  J'itzGerald  spent  there 
was  probably  the  happiest  of  his  life.  He  was  as 
deeply  devoted  to  Mrs.  Cowell  as  to  her  husband ; 
and  the  three  spent  many  pleasant  hours  in  the  cottage 
covered  with  Pyrus  japonica,  Avith  a  garden  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  a  big  monkey-puzzle  tree,  and  a 
little  footpath  leading  to  the  mill.  Here  they  read 
Greek,  Persian,  and  Spanish.  Mrs.  Cowell,  with  a 
green  ribbon  in  her  hair,  read  her  poems  aloud  and 
FitzGei^ald  criticised.  His  memory  long  after  dwelt 
upon  the  smallest  details  of  the  scene,  though  as  usual 
his  pleasiire  at  the  time  was  often  over-clouded  by  the 
thought  that  the  sweet  days  must  have  a  end.  The 
end  came  in  1851,  when  Mrs.  Cowell,  who  had  great 
ambitions  for  her  husband,  decided  that  he  must  go 
up  to  Oxford.  FitzGerald  strongly  disapproved  of 
this;  as  he  wrote  to  Frederic  Tennyson  : — 

"Not  that  I  think  Oxford  will  be  so  helpful  to  his  studies 
as  his  counting-house  at  Ipswich  was.  However,  being 
married,  he  cannot  at  all  events  become  Fellow,  and,  as  many 
do,  dissolve  all  the  promise  of  Scholarship  in  Sloth,  Gluttony, 
and  sham  Dignity." 


II.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  31 

Mrs.  Cowell  found  it  very  difficult,  in  the  face  of  the 
opposition  of  FitzGerald  and  Donne,  to  carry  out  her 
plan ;  her  great  ally  was  a  young  Mr.  George  Kitchin, 
a  friend  of  her  husband's,  now  Dean  of  Durham. 
Mrs.  CoAvell's  letters  dealing  with  the  matter  are 
full  of  vigorous  humour ;  her  husband  showed  signs 
of  vacillation. 

Mrs.  Cowell  began  by  asking  FitzGerald  to  tell 
Donne  that  Cowell  was  going  to  Oxford,  thinking  that 
he  would  sympathise.  Instead  of  complying,  he  tried 
to  dissuade  Cowell  from  the  intention,  saying  that 
all  was  done  and  given  at  Oxford  by  favour. 

"  And  that  he  had  far  better,"  writes  Mrs.  Cowell,  " try  for 
something  (of  all  nonsense  to  talk)  in  the  wretched  Scotch  or 
London  Universities.  This  is  never  to  be  thought  of.  .  .  . 
But  the  mischief  of  it  is  that  to  prove  their  point  they  so 
distort  College  life,  in  the  dreadfully  long  letters  E.F.G.  is 
rousing  up  his  languid  energies  to  send  to  us,  that  Edward, 
who  was  just  beginning,  to  my  heartfelt  thankfulness,  to  rise 
to  the  occasion,  ...  is  now  almost  wholly  turued  back 
again.  .  .  .  E.F.G.  may  write  again,  or  very  probably  return 
here  in  a  day  or  two.  I  wrote  to  try  and  stop  his  writing,  or 
using  such  influence,  but  quite  in  vain  ;  it  only  brought  on 
fresh  arguments." 

She  continues,  three  days  afterwards,  to  Mr. 
Kitchin  : — 

"  It  was  beyond  measure  important  that  your  letter  should 
arrive  before  another  from  E.F.G.  came,  or,  what  would  be 
worse,  himself.  .  ,  . 

"  Edward  [Cowell]  asks  if  I  have  fairly  represented  E.F.G. 
and  Mr.  Donne  to  you, — perhaps  not,  but  you  would  see  that 
they  only  meant  kindly,  and  were  acting  according  to  their 
own  view  like  true  friends,  and  are  both  really  men  of  the 
highest  principle,  as  far  as  a  maii  can  be,  who  doubts  if  .Scrip- 
ture be  altogether  the  highest  guide — and  also  men  of  fine 
taste  and  real  scholarship  ;  but  they  are  men  totally  incaj)able 
of  appreciating  Edward's  higher  qualities.  .  .  ." 


32  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Still,  Mrs.  Cowell  carried  her  point,  and  FitzGerald 
was  overwhelmed  with  unhappiness ;  he  wrote  to  the 
Vicar  of  Bredfield  : — 

"...  My  heart  saddens  to  think  of  Bramford  all  desolate ; 
and  I  shall  now  almost  turn  my  head  away  as  any  road  or 
railroad  brings  me  within  sight  of  the  little  spire  !  I  write 
once  a  week  to  abuse  both  of  them  for  going.  But  they  are 
quite  happy  at  Oxford.  .  .  ." 

FitzGerald  was  at  this  time  trying  in  a  quiet  way  to 
make  himself  useful,  not  so  much  on  principle,  but 
because  it  amused  him ;  he  used  to  teach  the  children 
in  the  village  school  near  Boulge  ;  and  it  was  thus  that 
he  saw  a  good  deal  of  Lucy  Barton,  the  daughter  of 
Bernard  Barton,  who  used  to  teach  in  the  Sunday- 
schools,  and  drifted  into  what  seems  to  have  become 
an  indefinite  engagement  of  marriage.  In  1849 
Bernard  Barton  died,  leaving  Miss  Barton  very  ill- 
provided  for.  FitzGerald  at  once  took  upon  himself 
to  edit,  with  an  introduction,  a  selection  from  her 
father's  letters  and  poems,  which  appeared  in  the  same 
year.  He  took  great  pains  to  collect  subscribers' 
names,  and  induced  his  friends  and  relations  to  order 
a  great  number  of  copies.  Carlyle,  Thackeray  and 
Trench  were  on  the  list,  while  Spedding  took  ten 
copies,  and  George  Crabbe  no  fewer  than  twelve. 
FitzGerald  appears  to  have  promised  Bernard  Barton 
that  his  daughter  should  be  pro\'ided  for  after  his 
death  ;  and  it  seems  that  both  Barton  and  his  daughter 
regarded  this  as  tantamount  to  an  ofier  of  marriage, 
but  that  FitzGerald  did  not  so  regard  it ;  indeed  the 
affair  is  involved  in  a  good  deal  of  mystery. 

Up  to  this  time  life  had  gone  prosperously  with 
FitzGerald,  but  in  the  year  1851  he  felt  the  sharp 
touch  of  ad-sersity.     He  had  been  using  his  eves  in- 


11.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  33 

judiciously,  reading  till  late  at  night  by  a  dim  paraffin 
lamp,  and  they  began  to  trouble  him.  But  he  employed 
his  disability  like  the  ancient  blind  philosopher,  puero 
ut  uno  esset  comifatior.  His  protege,  Alfred  Smith,  the 
son  of  the  farmer  at  the  Hall  farm,  was  now  a  big 
boy,  and  FitzGerald  engaged  him  to  come  up  in 
the  evenings  and  read  to  him.  Alfred  was  the  first 
of  a  series  of  readers;  FitzGerald  made  much  of 
the  boy,  and  used  to  take  him  up  to  town  to  see 
the  sights;  but  he  did  not  neglect  his  education, 
and  diligently  questioned  him  about  the  books  they 
read. 

Meanwhile  the  affairs  of  FitzGerald 's  father  had 
been  going  from  bad  to  worse.  He  had  been  sinking 
all  the  money  he  could  raise  in  developing  the  coal 
on  his  Manchester  estates,  and  he  had  recklessly 
involved  his  friend  and  neighbour.  Squire  Jenny,  in 
the  same  hapless  enterprise.  The  unfortunate  old  man 
drove  one  morning  to  a  friend's  house,  and  hurried 
into  his  room  saying,  "I  'm  in  a  devil  of  a  mess  !  I  'm 
ruined  !  "  Mr.  FitzGerald's  effects  at  the  Hall  were 
sold  up.  Neither  he  nor  Squire  Jenny  could  rally 
from  the  blow,  and  they  both  died  in  the  course  of  the 
next  few  months.  To  meet  the  claims  of  the 
Squire's  creditors,  the  great  pleasant  woods  on  his 
estate  were  felled.  Edward's  allowance  from  his  father 
came  to  an  end  ;  but  the  greater  part  of  his  mother's 
property  was  fortunately  secured  to  her,  so  that  any 
diminution  of  resources  from  which  he  suffered  was 
merely  temporary. 

FitzGerald  called  on  Miss  Barton  to  tell  her  of 
his  altered  prospects,  Imt  renewed  the  pledge  that  he 
had  made  to  her  father  that  she  should  never  be  in 
want.  It  seems  indeed  probable  that  the  delicacy 
which   FitzGerald  felt  about  offering    Miss   Barton  a 

c 


34  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap, 

definite  money  allowance  was  what  eventually  pre- 
cipitated his  resolution  to  offer  her  marriage. 

After  her  husband's  death,  FitzGerald's  mother  left 
the  neighbourhood,  settling  at  Richmond.  But  Fitz- 
Gerald  made  no  change  in  his  own  habits,  except 
that  in  this  year  he  printed  a  book  of  extracts  which 
he  called  Polonius :  a  Collection  of  Wise  Saws  and 
Modern  Instances.  "Not  a  book  of  Beauties"  he  de- 
scribed it  in  his  preface,  "other  than  as  all  who  have 
the  best  to  tell,  have  also  naturally  the  best  way  of 
telling  it";  nor  of  the  "limbs  and  outward  flourishes 
of  Truth,  however  eloquent ;  but  in  general,  and  as  far 
as  I  understand,  of  clear,  decided,  wholesome  and 
available  insight  into  our  nature  and  duties.  .  .  .  The 
grand  Truisms  of  life  only  life  itself  is  said  to  bring  to 
life." 

The  introduction,  which  is  a  little  stilted  and  dis- 
jointed, yet  contains  some  fine  passages,  such  as  : — 

"  And  why,"  says  the  note-book  of  one  nel  mezzo  del  cammin 
di  nostra  vita,  "  does  one  day  linger  in  my  memory  ?  I  had 
started  one  fine  October  morning  on  a  ramble  through  the 
villages  that  lie  beside  the  Ouse.  In  high  health  and  cloud- 
less spirits,  one  regret  ^^erliaps  hanging  upon  the  horizon  of 
the  heart,  I  walked  through  Sharnbrook  up  the  hill,  and 
paused  by  the  church  on  the  summit  to  look  about  me.  The 
sun  shone,  the  clouds  flew,  the  yellow  trees  shook  in  the  wind, 
the  river  rippled  in  breadths  of  light  and  dark  ;  rooks  and 
daws  wheeled  and  cawed  aloft  in  the  changing  spaces  of  blue 
above  the  spire  ;  the  churchyard  all  still  in  the  sunshine 
below." 

The  book  itself  consists  of  extracts  from  such  writers 
as  Selden,  Bacon,  Newman,  and  Carlyle,  and  illustrates 
a  graver  and  more  serious  view  of  life  than  FitzGerald's 
somewhat  purposeless  existence  would  have  suggested. 
But  the  fact  was  that  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  approach 


n.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  36 

of  adversity  had  cast  a  shadoAv  upon  his  epicurean  ease, 
and  he  had  passed  very  quickly  from  a  prolonged  youth 
into  a  somewhat  premature  age. 

But  the  pressure  of  calamity  did  have  one  very 
practical  effect  upon  FitzGerald ;  it  threw  him,  perhaps 
for  the  sake  of  distraction,  into  more  continuous 
literary  work  that  he  had  hitherto  attempted.  He 
was  reading  Spanish,  which  he  had  begun  under  the 
auspices  of  Cowell,  and  he  now  set  to  work  to  trans- 
late six  of  Calderon's  plays. 

FitzGerald's  principle  was  not  to  translate  so  much 
as  to  give  a  "  fine  and  efficient "  equivalent.  He  "sank, 
reduced,  altered,  and  replacedV  He  tried  to  catch  the 
spirit  of  the  original  and  to  produce  a  piece  of  literary 
work  rather  than  a  mere  paraphrase.  The  book  was 
published  in  1853,  and  was  so  severely  reviewed  in  the 
uithenceum  that  FitzGerald  endeavoured  to  withdraw  it 
from  circulation.  It  also  received  depreciatory  notice 
in  the  Leader,  in  an  article  which  it  seems  probable 
Avas  written  by  G.  H.  Lewes. 

In  the  meantime  the  eldest  brother,  John  Fitz- 
Gerald, settled  at  Boulge,  and  to  Edward's  pleasure 
allowed  the  timber  on  the  estate  to  grow  luxuriantl}'. 
Nothing  was  felled  or  lopped  ;  hedges  grew  up  strong 
and  dense,  and  the  whole  place  became  enveloped  in  a 
screen  of  vegetation.  FitzGerald  could  not,  howevei-, 
face  the  close  proximity  of  his  brother,  and  deserted 
his  cottage,  sending  his  eifects  to  Farlingay  Hall,  to 
which  Mr.  Job  Smith  had  moAcd,  and  where  Fitz- 
(xerald  Avas  now  received  as  a  lodger.  He  wrote  to 
Carlyle  describing  his  new  quarters  : — 

"I  am  lit  present  staying  M'ith  a  Fanner  in  a  very  i)leasant 
house  near  Woodbridge  :  inhabiting  sucli  a  room  as  even  you, 
I  think,  would  sleep  composedly  in  ;  my  ho.st  a  taciturn, 
cautious,  honest,  active  man  vhom  1  have  known  all  ujy  Lii'o. 


36  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

He  and  his  wife,  a  capital  housewife,  and  his  Son,  who  could 
carry  me  on  his  shoulders  to  Ipswich,  and  a  Maid  servant 
who,  as  she  curtsies  of  a  morning,  lets  fall  the  Tea-pot,  etc., 
constitute  the  household." 

But  he  could  not  settle  down.  He  drifted  about 
more  than  ever,  staying,  for  instance,  at  Bredfield  with 
Crabbe  for  two  months  together. 

In  1853  FitzGerald  took  up  the  study  of  Persian; 
Cowell,  in  the  following  year,  published  a  translation 
of  the  Odes  of  Hafiz,  and  FitzGerald  worked  at 
Bredfield  on  a  translation  of  Jami's  Saldmdn  and 
Ahsdl,  which  he  published  eventually  in  1856.  He 
spent  some  weeks  at  Oxford  in  Cowell's  company, 
and  there  improved  his  knowledge  of  the  language 
and  literature. 

At  Farlingay  he  bought  a  boat,  which  shows  that  his 
finances  w^ere  not  greatly  dcjDleted,  and  spent  many 
hours  in  sailing  on  the  Deben  in  company  with  Virgil, 
Juvenal  and  Wesley's  Journal.  In  the  same  year  he 
visited  Bath,  Avhere  he  met  Landor,  now  in  his 
eightieth  year.  "(He)  has  some  hundred  and  fifty 
Pictures,"  FitzGerald  wrote,  "each  of  w^hich  he  thinks 
the  finest  specimen  of  the  finest  Master,  and  has  a 
long  story  about  how  he  got  it,  when,  etc.  I  dare 
say  some  are  very  good;  but  also  some  very  bad. 
He  appeared  to  me  to  judge  of  them  as  he  does  of 
Books  and  Men ;  with  a  most  uncompromising  per- 
versity which  the  Phrenologists  must  explain  to  us 
after  his  Death." 

In  1854  his  mother  died,  and  John  succeeded  to  the 
estates,  assuming  the  additional  name  of  Purcell  l)efore 
FitzGerald. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  Carlyle,  being  over- 
worked, annoiuiced  his  intention  of  coming  to  stay 
v/ith  FitzGerald,  who  looked  forward  to  the  visit  with 


II,]  MIDDLE  LIFE  37 

amusement  tempeied  with  considerable  apprehension. 
He  begs  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  tell  him  what  the  Sage  is  to 
eat,  drink,  and  avoid.  He  makes  out  elaborate  way- 
bills for  Carlyle,  and  assures  him  that  he  will  have 
perfect  freedom  about  work  and  exercise ;  that  he  may 
smoke  when  and  where  he  will ;  and  have  "  a  capital 
sunshiny  airy  Bedroom  without  any  noise."  "  If  you 
don't  find  yourself  well,"  he  adds,  "or  at  ease  with  us, 
you  have  really  but  to  go,  without  any  sort  of  Cere- 
mony, as  soon  as  you  like." 

Carlyle  replies  in  a  characteristic  strain.  "  It  will  be 
pleasant,"  he  writes,  "  to  see  your  face  at  the  end  of 
my  shrieking,  mad,  (and  to  me  quite  horrible)  rail 
operations."  ...  "I  hope  to  get  to  Farlingay  not  long 
after  four  o'clock,  and  have  a  quiet  mutton  chop  in  due 
time,  and  have  a  ditto  pipe  or  pipes  :  nay  I  could  even 
have  a  bathe  if  there  was  any  sea  water  left  in  the 
evening."  The  visit  went  off  better  than  could  have 
been  expected.  Carlyle  wrote  of  FitzGerald  after- 
wards as  a  "  lonely,  shy,  kind-hearted  man,  who  dis- 
charged the  sacred  rites  (of  hospitality)  with  a  kind  of 
Irish  zeal  or  piety."  His  only  complaint  was  that  he 
was  not  left  quite  enough  alone  ;  and  he  was  gi'aciously 
pleased  to  observe  of  FitzClerald's  friends  that  he  "did 
not  fare  intolerably  with  them."  The  weather  was  good, 
and  the  sage  sat  much  in  the  open  air,  under  an  elm, 
reading.  When  he  departed,  he  chose  the  steamei-, 
declining  to  be  shut  up  in  a  I'ailway  carriage  "like  a 
great  codfish  in  a  hamper."  On  his  return  he  sent 
FitzGerald  a  new  in.sci'iption  for  the  Nascby  monument, 
which  was  to  be  signed  by  FitzCierald,  and  to  end  with 
the  words  "Peace  henceforth  to  the.se  old  Dead."  He 
seems  to  have  enjoyed  his  visit,  and  wi'ote,  u  month 
afterwards:  "On  the  whole  I  .say,  wlien  you  get  your 
little  Sufiblk  cottage,  vou  nuist  have  in  it  a  'chamber 


38  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap, 

in  the  wall '  for  me,  plus  a  pony  that  can  trot,  and  a 
cow  that  gives  good  milk ;  with  these  outfits  we  shall 
make  a  pretty  rustication  now  and  then,  not  wholly 
Latrappish,  but  only  half,  on  much  easier  terms  than 
here ;  and  I  for  one  shall  be  right  willing  to  come  and 
try  it,  I  for  one  party.  .  .  .  after  the  beginning  of  next 
week,  I  am  at  Chelsea,  and  (I  dare  say)  there  is  a  fire  in 
the  evenings  now  to  welcome  you  there.  Show  face  in 
some  way  or  other.  And  so  adieu,  for  my  hour  of 
riding  is  at  hand." 

The  serene  egotism  of  this  letter  is  very  characteris- 
tic ;  and  Carlyle's  view  of  hospitality,  that  everything 
should  be  arranged  for  the  comfort  of  the  guest  con- 
cerned, shows  the  lack  of  courtesy  that  differentiates 
him  so  strongly  from  his  host. 

In  1856  came  a  joy  and  sorrow  hand  in  hand. 
Browne,  who  had  been  long  absent  on  garrison  duty 
in  Ireland,  during  the  Crimean  War,  returned  to  Gold- 
ington,  "a  bloody  warrior,"  as  FitzGerald  called  him. 
But  the  beloved  Cowell  had  also  accepted  a  Professor- 
ship of  History  at  Calcutta,  and  FitzG-erald's  heart  was 
heavy.  Every  detail  of  the  last  day  he  spent  with 
the  Cowells — the  scent  and  stir  of  the  hayfield,  the 
echo  of  his  own  husky  voice — dwelt  with  FitzGerald 
for  many  a  day. 

FitzGerald  could  not  face  the  parting  with  these 
dear  friends.     He  wrote  : — 

"  My  dear  Edward  axd  Elizabeth  Cowell, — I  think  it 
is  best  for  many  reasons  that  I  should  not  go  to  see  you  again 
— to  say  a  Good-Bye  that  costs  me  so  much. 

"  I  shall  very  soon  write  to  you  ;  and  hope  to  keep  up 
something  of  Communion  by  such  meagre  Intercourse.  Do 
you  do  the  same  to  me.     Farewell,  Both  I     Ever  your's, 

Ed.  FitzG." 

In  the  October  of  the  same   vear  FitzGerald  met 


II.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  39 

George  Borrow,  then  living  in  a  lonely  house  near 
Oulton  Broad,  and  busy  writing  the  Romany  Bye. 
FitzGerald  found  this  strange  pilgrim's  masterful  man- 
ners and  irritable  temper  uncongenial.  Yet  he  said 
long  after  that  he  was  almost  the  only  friend  Borrow 
had  never  quarrelled  with. 

And  then  befell  what  must  be  considered  the  greatest 
mistake  of  FitzGerald's  life,  his  marriage  to  Miss 
Barton.  It  is  difficult  to  realise  exactly  what  the 
relations  of  the  pair  at  this  time  were.  At  some  period 
or  other  they  must  have  become  definitely  engaged, 
possibly  when  FitzGerald  discovered  that  he  would  still 
be  in  comparatively  easy  circumstances.  It  is  clear, 
at  all  events,  that  about  this  time  he  began  to  consider 
himself  pledged  to  marry  Miss  Barton ;  he  wrote,  soon 
after  his  marriage,  "had  good  sense  and  experience 
prevailed  ...  it  would  never  have  been  completed  ! 
You  know  my  opinion  of  a  'Man  of  Taste,'  never  so 
dangerous  as  when  tied  down  to  daily  Life  Com- 
panionhood."  FitzGerald  had  discussed  the  matter 
with  Browne,  who  foresaw  nothing  but  unhappiness  as 
the  result  of  this  ill-assorted  union.  "Give  her  anytliiiig 
you  like  but  your  hand,'"'  he  said.  W.  H.  Thompson 
had  also  strongly  urged  him  to  make  an  honourable 
Avithdrawal.  Indeed  Miss  Barton  herself  begged  him 
to  terminate  the  engagement,  if  ho  did  not  think 
the  marriage  would  be  for  his  happiness.  But  Fitz 
Gerald  was  obstinate,  with  the  o])stinacy  of  a  weak 
and  sensitive  nature.  He  expected  no  great  accession 
to  his  happiness  —  there  was  indeed  little  romance 
possible  for  these  middle-aged  lovers,  ])oth  nearer 
fifty  than  forty  —  and  the  utmost  Fitzgerald  seems 
to  have  hoped  was  that  he  might  ])c  allowed  to 
continue  his  easy-going  independent  life  in  the 
company  of  one,  many  of  whose  qualities  he  admired. 


40  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Probably,  like  many  indecisive  people,  he  did  not 
know  how  much  his  .own  habits  had  crystallised. 
The  marriage  took  place  at  Chichester  on  Novem- 
ber 4,  1856 ;  the  newly  married  pair  went  to 
Brighton,  and  then  settled  for  a  time  at  31  Great 
Portland  Street,  London.  A  few  days  of  married  life 
were  enough  to  disillusionise  FitzGerald.  He  found  him- 
self the  husband  of  a  kindly,  conventional,  methodical 
woman,  who  looked  forward  to  her  marriage  with  a 
man  of  comparative  wealth  and  of  assured  social  stand- 
ing as  an  opportunity  to  live  a  thoroughly  ordinary, 
commonplace  life,  with  all  the  customary  accompani- 
ments of  visits  and  parties.  Mrs.  FitzGerald  wanted 
her  husband  to  pay  calls,  to  receive  visitors,  to  dress 
for  dinner.  Perhaps  if  she  had  shown  greater  tact 
and  sympathy  she  might  have  made  herself  indis- 
pensable to  her  husband's  happiness.  If  she  had 
realised  her  position  as  the  wife  of  an  able  and  some- 
what eccentric  man,  and  arranged  their  life  to  suit  his 
requirements,  it  would  have  been  a  contented  and 
might  have  been  a  happy  marriage.  But  it  was  the 
other  way ;  Mrs.  FitzGerald  had  her  own  theory  of 
married  life,  and  seems  to  have  thought  that  she  could 
influence  her  husband  into  conformity.  FitzGerald,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  not  less  to  blame  ;  he  made  no 
concessions,  no  sacrifice  of  tastes ;  he  held  on  his  way, 
and  appears  to  have  felt  that  he  might  have  asserted 
himself ;  but  he  shrank  with  horror  from  the  conflict 
involved.  After  a  fortnight  they  separated  for  five 
weeks,  her  husband  joining  her  at  Geldestone ;  and 
again  took  up  their  quarters  in  Portland  Terrace, 
Regent's  Park.  FitzGerald  sank  into  the  extremest 
dejection  ;  writing  to  Cowell  about  their  parting,  he 
said :  "  I  believe  there  are  new  channels  fretted  in 
my  cheeks   M'ith    many  unmanly   tears    since  then "  : 


II.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  41 

and  again  ;  "  Till  I  see  better  how  we  get  on,  I  dare 
fix  on  no  place  to  live  or  die  in."  But  he  worked  on 
at  his  Persian,  and  though  he  had  little  heart  for  work, 
he  produced  a  translation  of  Attar's  Bird  Parliament, 
not  published  till  after  his  death.  They  lingered  on  in 
London,  and  in  April  he  received  letters  from  Cowell. 
In  a  vein  of  hopeless  depression  he  writes : — 

"  Yours  and  your  wife's  dear  good  Letters  put  into  my 
hand  as  I  sit  in  tlie  sunshine  in  a  little  Balcony  outside  the 
Windows  looking  upon  the  quite  green  hedge  side  of  the 
Eegent's  Park.  For  Green  it  is  thus  early,  and  such  weather 
as  I  never  remember  before  at  this  Season.  Well,  your  Letters, 
I  say,  were  put  into  my  hand  as  I  was  looking  into  ^^schylus 
\inder  an  Umbrella,  and  waiting  for  Breakfast.  My  wife  cried 
a  good  deal  over  your  wife's  Letter  I  think,  I  think  so.  Ah 
me  !  I  would  not  as  yet  read  it,  for  I  was  already  sad  ;  but 
I  shall  answer  hers  to  me  which  I  did  read  indeed  with  many 
thoughts." 

The  ill-assorted  pair  then  tried  life  in  the  country, 
at  Gorleston  near  Yarmouth,  but  FitzGerald  got  no 
pleasure  except  in  visits  to  Browne.  At  last,  aft«r 
dismal  self-communing,  he  made  up  his  mind.  There 
was  no  definite  separation,  but  after  this  date  Fitz- 
Gerald never  rejoined  his  wife,  and  eventually  a  liberal 
allowance  was  placed  at  her  disposal.  She  went  to 
live  at  Hastings,  then  at  Croydon.  Fitz(xcrald 
summed  up  the  situation  at  a  later  period  : — 

"Not  less  do  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  what  you  say 
than  for  the  kindly  reticence  you  have  always  sliown  in  the 
matter  of  Mrs.  E.  F.  G.  You  know  well  enough,  from  your 
own  as  well  as  your  husband's  knowknlge  of  the  case,  that 
Jam  very  much  to  blame,  both  on  the  score  of  stupidity  in 
taking  so  wrong  a  step,  and  want  of  courageous  principle  in 
not  making  the  best  of  it  when  taken.  She  has  little  to 
blame  herself  for,  except  in  fancying  .'ihe  knew  both  me  and 
herself  better  than   I  lia<l  over  and  over  again  told  her  was 


42  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

the  truth  htfore  marriage.  Well,  I  won't  say  more.  I  think 
you  will  admit  that  she  is  far  better  off  than  she  wa«,  and  as 
I  feel  sure,  ever  would  have,  been  living  with  me.  She  was 
brought  up  to  rule ;  and  though  I  believe  she  would  have 
submitted  to  be  a  slave,  it  would  have  been  at  too  great  a 
price  to  her,  and  I  doubt  no  advantage  to  me.  She  can  now 
take  her  own  way,  live  where  she  likes,  have  what  society 
she  likes,  etc.,  while  every  year  and  every  day  I  am  creeping 
out  of  the  world  in  my  own  way." 

FitzGerald  and  his  wife  sometimes  exchanged  letters ; 
but  though  Mrs.  FitzGerald  endeavoured  to  persuade 
her  husband  to  see  her,  she  never  prevailed.  She 
alM-ays  spoke  affectionately  of  him.  Once  indeed  they 
met  face  to  face,  as  will  be  hereafter  related ;  but  they 
never  interchanged  another  word.  FitzGerald  fell 
back  at  once,  Avith  an  extreme  sense  of  relief,  into  his 
lonely  ways,  though  deeply  annoyed  at  the  criticisms 
on  his  action  which  came  to  his  ears. 

To  add  to  his  unhappiness,  his  old  friend  Crabbe 
fell  ill ;  he  wrote  of  it  to  Cowell : — 

"First,  however,  I  must  tell  you  how  much  ill  poor  Crabbe 
has  been  :  a  sort  of  Paralysis,  I  suppose,  in  two  little  fits, 
which  made  him  think  he  was  sure  to  die  ;  but  Dr.  Beck  at 
present  says  he  may  live  many  years  with  care.  Of  this  also 
I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  more  before  I  wind  up.  The  brave 
old  Fellow  !  he  was  quite  content  to  depart,  and  had  his 
Daughter  up  to  give  her  his  Keys,  and  tell  her  Avhere  the 
different  wines  were  laid  !  I  must  also  tell  you  that  Borrow 
is  greatly  delighted  with  your  MS.  of  Omar  which  I  showed 
him  :  delighted  at  the  terseness  so  unusual  in  Oriental  Verse. 
But  his  Eyes  are  apt  to  cloud  ;  and  his  wife  has  been  obliged, 
he  tells  me,  to  carry  off  even  the  little  Omar  out  of  reach  of 
them  for  a  while.  .  .  ." 

The  exact  circumstances  which  led  to  FitzGerald's 
making  acquaintance  with  the  Quatrains  of  Omar  will 
be  related  lower  down.     But  the  above  extract  shows 


n.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  43 

that  he  "was  at  this  time  at  work  upon  the  translation 
of  the  book,  which,  after  a  year's  fruitless  sojourn  in 
an  editor's  drawer,  was  to  see  the  light  in  1859. 

But,  to  resume,  in  September  1857,  his  old  friend 
died  at  Bredfield.  FitzGerald  wrote  to  Crabbe's  son, 
in  a  way  which  showed  that  he  felt  a  real  sympathy 
with  Mrs.  FitzGerald's  isolated  position.  "  I  want  your 
sisters  so  much  to  go  to  my  wife  at  Gorleston  when 
they  can.  I  am  convinced  that  their  going  to  her  would 
be  the  very  thing  for  herself,  poor  soul ;  taking  her  out 
of  herself,  and  giving  her  the  very  thing  she  is  pining 
for,  namely,  some  one  to  devote  herself  to."  FitzGerald 
went  to  Crabbe's  funeral ;  and  then  wandered  to 
London,  where  a  blow  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
fell  upon  him.  The  beloved  BroAvne,  Phidippus,  the 
gallant  horseman,  was  out  hunting  on  the  28th  of 
January  1859,  when  his  horse,  accidentally  touched  by 
some  rider's  whip,  reared  and  fell  upon  him.  He  was 
carried  home,  and  lingered  for  nine  weeks  in  hopeless 
agony,  borne  gallantly  and  courageously.  FitzGerald 
huri-ied  to  Goldington,  but  could  not  ])C  persuaded 
to  face  an  interview  with  his  friend.  At  last  he 
overcame  the  shrinking;  he  wrote  to  Donne  from 
Goldington  :  — 

"  Your  folks  told  you  on  what  Errand  I  left  your  houie 
so  abruptly.  I  was  not  allowed  to  see  \V.  B.  the  day  I 
came  :  nor  yesterday  till  3  r.ii.  ;  when,  poor  fellow,  he  tried 
to  write  a  line  to  me,  like  a  child's  1  and  I  went,  and 
saw,  no  longer  the  gay  Lad,  nor  the  healthy  Man,  I  had 
known  :  Init  a  wreck  of  all  that :  a  Face  like  Charles  i. 
(after  decapitation  almost)  above  the  Clothes  :  and  the  poor 
shattered  Body  underneath  lying  as  it  had  lain  eight  weeks  ; 
such  a  case  as  the  Doctor  says  he  had  never  known.  Instead 
of  the  light  utterance  of  other  days  too,  came  the  slow,  painful 
syllables  in  a  far  lower  Key  :  and  when  the  old  familiar  words, 


44  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

'Old   Fellow — Fitz.' — etc.,  came   forth,  so  spoken,    I   broke 
down  too  in  spite  of  foregone  Eesolution. 

"They  thought  he'd  die  last  Night :  but  this  Morning  he 
is  a  little  better  :  but  no  hope.  He  has  spoken  of  me  in  the 
Night,  and  (if  he  wishfes)  I  shall  go  again,  provided  his  Wife 
and  Doctor  approve.  But  it  agitates  him  :  and  Tears  he 
could  not  wipe  away  came  to  his  Eyes.  The  poor  Wife  bears 
up  wonderfully." 

And  again  to  Mr.  Aldis  Wright : — 

"...  I  was  by  his  Bedside,  where  he  lay  (as  for  three 
months  he  had  lain)  broken  in  half  almost  ;  yet  he  looked  at 
me  with  his  old  discrimination  and  said,  '  I  suppose  you  have 
scarce  ever  been  with  a  dying  person  before  ? '  He  had  rare 
intuition  into  Men,  Matters,  and  even  into  Matters  of  Art : 
though  Thackeray  would  call  him  'Little  Browne' — which 
I  told  him  he  was  not  justified  in  doing.  They  are  equal 
now." 

On  the  next  day,  Sunday,  the  27th  of  March,  ■while 
waiting  for  Browne  to  die,  FitzGerald  wrote  two 
pathetic  inscriptions  in  the  Godefridvs  of  Kenelm  Digby, 
and  the  Euphranoi;  copies  of  which  he  had  himself 
given  to  his  friend  in  the  old  days. 

"This  book,"  ran  the  first,  "I  gave  my  dear 
\V.  K.  B.  about  twenty  yea.Ts  ago  ;  when  then 
believing  it,  and  believing  it  nmv,  to  contain  a 
character  of  himself  (especially  at  pp.  89,  etc.),  though 
he  might  be  the  last  to  negotiate  it  as  his  own  like- 
ness. I  now  think  his  son  cannot  do  better  than  read 
it,  with  the  light  his  father's  example  sheds  upon  it."' 

In  the  Euphranor  he  wrote,  "  This  little  book  would 
never  have  been  written,  had  I  not  known  my  dear 
friend  "William  Browne,  who,  unconsciously,  supplied 
the  moral." 

These  sad  inscriptions  are  like  the  scrawls  of  some 
disconsolate  prisoner,  with  the  weight  of  doom  lying 
heavy  on  his  heart. 


II.]  MIDDLE  LIFE  45 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  On  the  30th  of  March 
Browne  died. 

FitzGerald  had  exhausted  the  depths  of  grief ;  he 
wrote  to  Cowell : — 

"...  I  have  had  a  great  Loss.  W.  Browne  was  fallen 
upon  and  half  crushed  by  his  horse  near  three  months  ago  :  and 
though  the  Doctors  kept  giving  hopes  while  he  lay  patiently 
for  two  months  in  a  condition  no  one  else  could  have  borne 
for  a"  Fortnight,  at  last  they  could  do  no  more,  nor  Nature 
neither  :  and  he  sunk.  I  went  to  see  him  before  he  died — 
the  comely  spirited  Boy  I  had  known  first  seven-and-twenty 
years  ago — lying  all  shattered  and  Death  in  his  Face  and 
Voice.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  this  is  so  :  and  there  is  no  more  to  be  eaid  about 
it.  It  is  one  of  the  things  that  reconcile  me  to  my  own 
stupid  Decline  of  Life — to  the  crazy  state  of  the  world — 
"Well — no  more  about  it." 

He  was  sent  .some  little  mementoes  of  Browne  :  hut 
ho  could  not  return  to  Goldington  ;  and  he  lay  under 
the  shadow  of  his  loss  for  many  days. 


CHAPTER   III 

LATER   YEARS 

In  1860  FitzG-erald  pitched  his  moving  tent  in 
Woodbridge  Market-place,  over  a  gun-maker's  shop. 
He  crammed  his  little  rooms  Avith  all  his  books  and 
pictures,  and  took  up  again  the  thread  of  his  lonely 
life.  He  was  now  in  flourishing  cii'cumstances,  as  his 
mother's  death  had  put  him  in  possession  of  nearly 
a  thousand  a  year ;  but  the  idea  of  a  settled  home, 
which  sometimes  occurred  to  him,  M'as  overshadowed 
by  the  thought  of  the  troubles  of  housekeeping.  He 
wrote  at  this  date  the  poem  called  "Virgil's  Garden 
laid  out  a  la  Delille,"  an  idyll  which  appeared  long 
after  in  I'einple  Bar.  Mr.  Job  Smith  of  Farlingay 
died,  and  young  Alfred  settled  at  a  farm  called 
Sutton  Hoo,  a  house  just  across  the  river,  approached 
by  a  ferry.  FitzGerald  had  a  small  yacht  built,  which 
he  called  The  Scandal,  saying  that  he  named  it  after 
the  main  staple  of  Woodljridge,  and  adding  that  all 
other  possible  names  had  been  used  up.  His  skipper 
was  one  Thomas  Newson,  a  smart  sailor,  with  a 
nasal  twang,  and  a  head  perched  on  one  side,  "like 
a  magpie  looking  in  a  quart  pot,"  as  FitzGerald  once 
said — adding,  "  He  is  always  smiling,  yet  the  wretched 
fellow  is  the  father  of  twins  "  ;  in  this  yacht,  which 
was  a  great  resource  to  him,  he  took  many  cruises,  once 
even  going  as  far  as  Holland. 
He  wrote  to  Cowell : — 


CHAP.  III.]  LATER  YEARS  47 

"My  chief  Amusement  in  Life  is  Boating,  on  Eiver  and 
Sea.  The  Country  about  here  is  the  Cemetery  of  so  many 
of  my  oldest  Friends  :  and  the  petty  race  of  Squires  who 
have  succeeded  only  use  the  Earth  for  an  Investment :  cut 
down  every  old  Tree  :  level  every  Violet  Bank  :  and  make 
the  old  Country  of  my  Youth  hideous  to  me  in  my  Decline. 
There  are  fewer  Birds  to  be  heard,  as  fewer  Trees  for  them 
to  resort  to.  So  I  get  to  the  Water  :  where  Friends  are  not 
buried  nor  Pathways  stopt  up  :  but  all  is,  a.s  the  Poets  say, 
as  Creation's  Dawn  beheld.  I  am  happiest  going  in  my 
little  Boat  round  the  Coast  to  Aldbro',  with  some  Bottled 
Porter  and  some  Bread  and  Cheese,  and  some  good  rough 
Soul  who  works  the  Boat  and  chews  his  Tobacco  in  peace. 
An  Aldbro'  Sailor  talking  of  my  Boat  said — "  She  go  like  a 
Wiolin,  she  do  ! '  What  a  pretty  Conceit,  is  it  not  ?  A.s  the 
Bow  slides  over  the  Strings  in  a  liquid  Tune.  Another  man 
was  talking  yesterday  of  a  great  Storm :  '  and,  in  a  moment, 
all  as  calm  as  a  Clock.' " 

But  all  this  was  in  the  pleasant  summer  when  life 
went  easily.  It  w'as  far  different  in  the  short  wet 
winter  days ;  he  wrote  to  George  Crabbe  : — 

"By  the  bye,  don't  let  me  forget  to  ask  you  to  bring  Avith 
you  my  Persian  Dictionary  in  case  you  come  into  these  Parts. 
I  read  very  very  little,  and  get  very  desultory  :  but  when 
AVinter  comes  again  must  take  to  some  dull  Study  to  keep 
from  Suicide,  I  suppose.  The  River,  the  Sea,  etc.,  serve  to 
divert  one  now." 

But  death  was  busy  among  FitzGerald's  circle,  and 
he  began  to  feel  the  unhappiness  of  having  made  so 
many  friends  among  those  older  than  himself.  The 
sense  of  the  brevity,  the  swift  passage  of  life,  began 
to  haunt  him  like  an  obsession.  His  sister  Eleanor, 
Mrs.  Kerrich,  died  in  18G3.  "The  good  die,"'  he 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Browne,  "  they  sacrifice  themselves 
for  others  ;  she  never  thought  of  herself,  only  her 
children.  ...  I  will  not  go  to  the  wretched  funeral, 


48  EDWARP  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

where  there  are  plenty  of  mourners,  but  I  shall  go  to 
Geldestone  when  they  wish  me."  Late  in  the  year 
Thackeray  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty-two ;  and  FitzGerald 
began  to  live  in  the  past  more  than  ever,  in  the  good 
old  days.  He  still  could  not  forget  his  wife.  He 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Browne  : — 

"  The  last  I  heard  of  Mrs.  E.  F.  G.  was  that  she  had  gone 
to  Brighton,  where  I  suppose  she  finds  the  greatest  number 
of  '  God's  afflicted  children,'  among  whom  she  proposed  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  her  days.    Do  you  hear  from  her  1 " 

In  1864  Fitzgerald  made  up  his  mind  to  buy  a 
little  farmhouse  near  Woodbridge,  but  he  did  not  at 
once  take  up  his  residence  there.  He  called  it  Grange 
Farm,  but  afterwards  altered  the  name  to  Littlecrrange. 
In  the  same  year  came  another  great  friendship.  He 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  stalwart  sailor  named 
Joseph  Fletcher,  commonly  called  Posh.  It  was  at 
Lowestoft  that  he  was  found,  where  FitzGerald  used, 
as  he  wrote  in  1859,  "to  wander  about  the  shore  at 
night  longing  for  some  fellow  to  accost  me  who  might 
give  some  promise  of  filling  up  a  very  vacant  place 
in  my  heart."  Posh  had  seen  the  melancholy  figure 
wandering  about,  and,  years  after,  when  FitzGerald 
used  to  ask  him  why  he  had  not  been  merciful  enough 
to  speak  to  him.  Posh  would  reply  that  he  had  not 
thought  it  becoming. 

Posh  was,  in  FitzGei-ald's  own  words,  "a  man  of  the 
finest  Saxon  type,  Avith  a  complexion  vif,  male  et 
flamboyant,  blue  eyes,  a  nose  less  than  Roman,  more 
than  Greek,  and  strictly  auburn  hair  that  any  woman 
might  sigh  to  possess."  He  was,  too,  according  to 
FitzGerald,  "a  man  of  simplicity  of  soul,  justice  of 
thought,  tenderness  of  nature,  a  gentleman  of  Nature's 
grandest  type."      FitzGerald  became  deeply  devoted 


in.]  LATER  YEARS  49 

to  this  big-handed,  soft-hearted,  grave  fellow,  then 
twenty-four  years  of  age.  FitzGerald  thus  wrote  of 
him  to  Laurence  : — 

"  The  Great  Man  ...  is  yet  there  :  commanding  a  Crew 
of  those  who  prefer  being  his  Men  to  having  command  of  their 
own.  And  they  are  right ;  for  the  man  is  Royal,  tho'  witli 
the  faults  of  ancient  Vikings.  .  .  .  His  Glory  is  somewhat 
marred  ;  hut  he  looks  every  inch  a  King  in  his  Lugger  now. 
At  home  (when  he  is  there,  and  not  at  the  Tavern)  he  sits 
among  his  Dogs,  Cats,  Birds,  etc.,  always  with  a  great  Dog 
following  abroad,  and  aboard.  This  is  altogether  the  Greatest 
Man  I  have  known.' 

And  again  to  the  same  : — 

"  You  will  see  ....  a  little  of  his  simplicity  of  Soul  ; 
hut  not  the  Justice  of  Thought,  Tenderness  of  Nature,  and 
all  the  other  good  Gifts  which  make  him  a  Gentleman  of 
Nature's  grandest  Type." 

And  again  to  Spalding  :  ^ — 

"  Oh,  these  [Posh  and  his  wife]  are  the  People  who  some- 
how interest  me  ;  and  if  I  were  not  now  too  far  advanced  on 
the  Road  to  Forgetfulness,  I  should  be  sad  that  my  own  life 
had  been  such  a  wretched  Concern  in  comparison.  But  it  is 
too  late,  even  to  lament,  now.  .  .  ." 

And  again  to  the  same,  of  entering  a  church  at  Yar- 
mouth with  Posh : — 

"...  when  Posh  pulled  off  his  Cap,  and  stood  erect  but 
not  irreverent,  I  thought  he  looked  as  good  an  Image  of  the 
Mould  that  Man  was  originally  cast  in  as  you  may  chance  to 
see  iu  the  Temple  of  the  Maker  in  these  Days.  The  Artillery 
were  blazing  away  on  the  Denes  ;  and  the  little  Band-master, 
who  played  with  his  Troop  here  last  summer,  joined  us  as  we 
were  walking,  and  told  Posh  not  to  lag  behind,  for  he  was 
not  at  all  ashamed  to  be  seen  walking  with  him.  The  little 
Well-meauinir  Ass  I 


^  Frederick  Spalding  died  lOO'i,  an  aulicjuary  and  arclia>olo- 
giat,  curator  of  the  Castle  ^luseuiu  at  Colchester  ;  formerly  a 
neighbour  of  Fitztierald's  at  Woodhridge. 

1) 


50  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  a  good  deal  of  senti- 
mentality was  wasted  over  this  sea-lion.  Nothing 
that  Posh  might  do  could  be  criticised.  Thus  on 
on  one  occasion  it  is  related  that  Posh,  after  being 
sumptuously  feasted  at  FitzGerald's  lodgings,  lay  down 
at  full  length  on  the  sofa.  Mr.  Alfred  Smith,  who 
was  present,  and  thought  that  this  was  taking  a 
liberty,  remarked  upon  it.  "  Poor  fellow  ! "  said  Fitz- 
Gerald,  "look  how  tired  he  is!"  Posh's  one  failing 
was  drink,  to  which  he  occasionally  gave  way.  But 
FitzGerald  could  not  bear  to  judge  him  severely;  he 
wrote  to  Spalding  of  one  of  these  lapses  : — 

"I  declare  that  it  makes  me  feel  ashamed  very  much  to 
play  the  Judge  on  one  who  stands  immeasurably  above  me 
in  the  scale,  whose  faults  are  better  than  so  many  virtues. 
Was  not  this  very  outbreak  that  of  a  great  genial  Boy  among 
his  old  Fellows  1  True,  a  Promise  was  broken.  Yes,  but  if 
the  whole  man  be  of  the  Royal  Blood  of  Humanity,  and  do 
Justice  in  the  Main,  what  are  the  peo2yle  to  say  ? " 

Among  other  kindnesses  FitzGerald  built  a  herring- 
lugger  for  Posh,  retaining  the  interest  of  a  partner; 
he  named  it  The  Meum  and  Tnum ;  but  it  did  not  prove 
a  successful  venture,  and  it  was  afterwards  made  over 
to  Posh  altogether. 

But  among  his  diversions  FitzGerald  did  not  forget 
his  literary  work :  he  took  up  Calderon  again  and 
translated  two  moi'C  plays,  The  Migltty  Magician  and 
Such  Stuff  as  Dreams  are  made  of,  which  appeared  in 
1865. 

He  also  began  to  improve  his  house,  adding  rooms 
and  altering,  draining,  and  planting  his  five  or  six 
acres.  He  was  difficult  to  satisfy.  He  would  order  a 
piece  of  building  to  be  done,  come  wandering  up,  and 
presently  give  oi'ders  for  its  demolition.  He  cruised 
about  a  uood  deal,  visiting  the  south  coast  of  England 


III.]  LATER  YEARS  51 

as  far  as  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  and  planned  abbreviations 
of  T)ig  books  like  Clarissa  Ilarlowe  and  Wesley's  Journal, 
a  species  of  task  in  which  he  took  a  peculiar  delight. 
But  he  Avas  full  of  melancholy  moods.  Death  seemed 
"to  rise  like  a  wall"  against  him  whichever  way  he 
looked.  He  wrote  to  Allen  :  "  When  I  read  Boswell 
and  other  Memoirs  )iow,  what  presses  on  me  most  is — 
All  these  people  who  talked  and  acted  so  busily  are 
gone."  He  finished,  too,  his  translation  of  the 
Agamemnon,  which  he  printed  in  the  same  year,  1865, 
without  a  title-page,  and  had  bound  in  an  ugly  blue 
wrapper.  "  When  one  has  done  one's  best,"  he  wrote 
to  Cowell,  "  one  likes  to  make  an  end  of  the  matter  by 
print.  ...  I  suppose  very  few  people  have  ever  taken 
such  Pains  in  Translation  as  I  have." 

At  this  time  John  FitzGerald  was  in  a  condition  of 
high  rhetorical  fervour.  Wherever  he  could  get  an 
audience  to  address  he  huri'ied  thither.  He  was  the 
despair  of  meetings  at  which  he  took  the  chair, 
because  the  chairman's  address  invariably  consumed 
the  whole  of  the  evening  :  and  whatever  the  subject 
of  the  lecturer  might  be,  John  FitzGerald  spoke 
fervently  of  temperance  and  the  abominations  of 
Rome.  He  inidresscd  himself  on  these  occasions  more 
industriously  than  ever,  hurk-d  gi-ease  about  and 
knocked  hats  oti' pegs.  "We  FitzGeralds  are  all  mad," 
said  Edward,"  "but  John  is  the  maddest  of  the  family, 
for  he  does  not  know  it."  John  gave  way  to  moods 
of  deep  melancholy;  jmt  a  clock  in  every  room  at 
I5nulge,  yet  whenever  he  desired  to  know  the  time  he 
woidd  ring  for  his  valet  to  tell  him.  Yet  all  the  while 
he  continued  to  li\e  like  a  man  of  j)osition  and  for- 
tune; ke{)t  many  servants  and  hoi'scs,  and  criticised  his 
brother  Edward's  wiirdT'obe  severely.  •'Tlie  difference 
between    John    and    me,"   said    FitzGerald,    "is    this: 


52  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

John  goes  and  does  things  that  he  knows  nothing 
about — the  most  unheard-of  things — and  thinks  he's 
perfectly  right ;  while  if  I  want  to  do  anything,  I  go 
to  some  one  who  understands  and  get  advice,  which, 
as  a  rule,  to  my  misfortune,  I  don't  follow." 

An  old  fishmonger  called  Levi,  in  Woodbridge,  used 
to  inquire  affectionately  after  John  FitzGerald  when- 
ever Edward  entered  the  shop,  "And  how  is  the 
General,  bless  him?"  "How  many  times,"  Fitzgerald 
used  to  say,  "Mr.  Levi,  must  I  tell  you  that  my 
brother  is  not  a  General,  and  was  never  in  the  Army  T' 
"Ah,  well,  it's  my  mistake,  no  doubt!  But,  anyhow, 
bless  him ! " 

FitzGerald  was  much  delighted  with  his  friend 
Thompson's  appointment  to  the  Mastership  of  Trinity 
in  1866,  and  wrote  to  Allen  : — 

"I  have  written  to  congratulate  him  in  a  sober  way  on  his 
Honours  ;  for,  at  our  Time  of  Life,  I  think  exultation  would 
be  unseasonable  on  either  side.  He  will  make  a  magnanimous 
Master,  I  believe  ;  doing  all  the  Honours  of  his  Station  well, 
if  he  have  health." 

In  the  same  year  Cowell  returned  from  Lidia  on 
furlough ;  but  FitzGerald,  with  a  shy  perversity, 
seemed  unable  to  take  up  the  old  relations ;  he  wrote 
to  Cowell : — 

"  This  time  ten  years — a  month  ago — we  were  all  lounging 
about  in  a  hayfield  before  your  Mother's  House  at  Rushmere. 
I  do  not  forget  these  things  :  nor  cease  to  remember  them 
with  a  sincere,  sad,  and  affectionate  interest  :  the  very 
sincerity  of  which  prevents  me  from  attempting  to  recreate 
them.  This  I  wish  you  and  yours,  who  have  been  so  kind  to 
me,  to  believe." 

But  in  1867,  to  FitzGerald's  great  delight,  Cowell 
obtained  the  Professorship  of  Sanskrit  at  Cambridge, 
and  the  old  intercourse  was  orraduallv  resumed. 


in.]  LATER  YEARS  53 

FitzGerald  cruised  a  good  deal  in  the  summer  of 
1867  ;  but  his  definite  rambles  grew  fewer  ;  he  came 
to  love  his  fireside  and  his  own  lonely  leisurely  ways 
more  and  more.  "  I  run  home  like  a  beaten  dog," 
he  said,  speaking  of  his  brief  visits  to  other  parts  of 
England. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  FitzGerald,  walking  briskly 
with  Posh  in  AVoodbridge  Thoroughfare,  saw  a  female 
form  drawing  near  and  a  glove  being  remo\'ed.  "It's 
my  wife ! "  said  FitzGerald  in  a  tone  of  tremulous 
excitement.  They  met,  exchanged  looks,  held  out 
their  hands,  but  FitzGerald's  courage  failed  at  the 
last  moment,  and  withdrawing  his  hand  he  said : 
"Come  along,  Posh,"  and  stalked  away. 

From  this  time  dates  FitzGerald's  close  friendship 
with  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  his  biograjjher  and  editor ; 
the  occasion  being  that  Dr.  Thompson,  the  Master  of 
Trinity,  expressed  a  wish  to  have  FitzGerald's  works 
in  the  University  Library,  and  it  fell  to  Mr.  Aldis 
Wright  to  carry  out  the  desire. 

In  1868  came  out  the  second  edition  of  the  Omar.  At 
this  time  FitzGerald  was  also  occupied  in  a  task,  which 
to  him  was  a  perpetual  delight,  of  rescuing  racy  terms 
of  local  or  nautical  origin  from  obscurity.  He  seems 
to  have  had  that  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  outward  physi- 
ognomy of  words,  words  with  old  and  far-ofl'  traditions, 
or  words  that  grew,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  soil,  expres- 
sive, racy,  vernacular  phrases.  He  used  to  send  them 
to  the  East  Anglian.  Many  of  them  were  drawn  from 
the  talk  of  Posh,  and  FitzGerald,  with  the  sensitive 
feeling,  so  characteristic  of  him,  which  led  him  to 
credit  others  with  his  own  sensil)ilities,  carefully  con- 
cealed from  Posh  that  he  made  any  public  use  of  these 
words.  One  day,  however,  he  handed  Posh  by  mistake 
a  proof  of  one  of  these  cuntributions  to  light  his  pipe 


54  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

vith.  Posh  began  to  read  the  paper,  and  FitzGerald, 
realising  his  mistake,  said:  "AVell,  is  that  wrong  1" 
"  I  don't  see  but  it 's  all  right  enough,  sir,"  said  Posh 
with  ready  tact.  "With  perfect  unconsciousness," 
said  FitzGerald,  in  relating  the  incident  to  "VY.  F. 
Pollock,  adding  maliciously ;  "In  this  he  differs  from 
the  Laureate." 

In  1870  FitzGerald  had  Posh's  portrait  painted  by 
Samuel  Laurence,  that  it  might  hang  side  by  side  with 
the  same  artist's  portraits  of  Tennyson  and  Thackeray, 
as  his  three  greatest  friends, — but  Posh  was  the  greatest. 

In  the  same  year  FitzGerald  parted  with  the  Meum 
and  Titum  to  Posh,  who  thus  became  sole  owner,  and 
celebrated  the  occasion  by  a  great  bout  of  conviviality. 
"Keep  from  the  drink,  there's  a  dear  fellow,"  Fitz- 
Gerald wrote  to  him.  He  induced  Posh  to  sign  the 
pledge,  but  after  breaking  down,  Posh  refused  to  renew 
it.  FitzGerald  comforted  himself  by  thinking  what 
Carlyle  had  said  about  great  men's  faults,  and  seems 
to  have  considered  Posh,  if  anything,  rather  nobler 
than  before. 

In  1871,  reaching  his  grand  climacteric,  FitzGerald 
felt  a  diminution  of  vitality  ;  he  parted  with  his  boat ; 
he  made  his  will ;  and  finding  his  eyes  trouble  him,  he 
had  recourse  again  to  boy  readers. 

In  1872  he  had  a  visit  from  Frederic  Tennyson,  who 
was  then  deeply  interested  in  spiritualistic  phenomena. 
FitzGerald  took  Posh  to  Lowestoft,  and  they  went 
together  to  see  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  Posh  sleeping 
soundly  through  the  performance.  In  the  next  year 
began  a  correspondence  with  Professor  C.  E.  Norton ; 
and  through  him  arrived  a  letter  from  Ruskin  praising 
the  Omcir  Khayyam,  which  had  remained  ten  years  in 
the  hand  of  Burne-Jones,  to  whom  Ruskin  had  en- 
trusted it ;  a  curious  voice  out  of  the  past.     At  the 


III.]  LATER  YEARS  55 

end  of  the  year  FitzGerald  was  forced  to  move  from 
his  Woodbridge  lodgings.  Mr.  Berry,  his  landlord, 
became  engaged  to  marry  a  widow.  FitzGerald,  who 
was  fond  of  smoking  and  chatting  with  Berry  in  the 
evenings,  did  not  relish  the  introduction  of  the  new 
element,  and  said  rather  caustically  that  "old  Berry 
would  now  have  to  be  called  'Old  Gooseberry.'"  This 
rash  witticism  was  repeated  to  the  widow ;  and  the 
upshot  was  that  Berry  gave  him  notice  to  quit.  Berry 
did  not  like  the  task  of  breaking  with  his  old  friend 
and  lodger,  and  came  cautiously  upstairs  to  announce 
the  decision.  His  helpmeet,  fearing  that  his  courage 
might  give  way,  remained  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs 
calling  out :  "  Be  firm.  Berry  !  Remind  him  of  what  he 
called  you." 

FitzGerald  seems  to  have  had  an  invincible  objection 
to  occupying  his  own  house ;  accordingly,  on  being 
ejected,  he  hired  another  room  in  an  adjacent  house, 
where  he  transferred  his  Penates.  But  he  was  losing 
his  zest  for  life.  In  1874  he  wrote  that  he  was  begin- 
ning to  have  warnings  of  the  end  :  "  I  find  life  little 
worth  now ;  not  that  I  am  unhappy,  but  so  wofully 
indifferent." 

At  last,  however,  he  installed  himself  in  his  own 
house,  Littlegrange ;  but  he  would  oidy  inhabit  one 
room,  a  large  downstairs  parlour,  which  he  divided  by 
folding-doors.  The  living-room  was  full  of  books,  with 
a  high-standing  desk.  In  the  hall  close  by  stood  an 
organ  on  which  he  often  played,  always  from  memory, 
drawing  out  of  it  a  great  richness  of  melody,  and 
crooning  an  air  himself  as  the  excitement  grew. 

He  furnished  the  rest  of  the  house  with  some  care  and 
dignity,  and  left  it  for  the  use  of  his  nieces,  whenever 
they  chose  to  visit  him ;  but  even  when  they  wei-e  in 
the  house,  he  was  little  with  them  ;  he  took  his  meals 


56  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

alone ;  and  sometimes  for  days  together  only  saw  them 
for  a  few  minutes  in  the  garden,  where  he  would  saunter 
along  a  winding  shrubbery  walk,  with  his  plaid  about 
him,  wearing  blue  glasses,  and  a  shade  over  his  eyes, 
which  were  often  painful.  He  would  often  be  heard 
humming  over  to  himself  old  songs  in  his  weak,  true 
voice.  Sunday  afternoons  he  would  spend  with  Alfred 
Smith  at  Sutton  Hoo,  in  an  arbour,  sipping  a  glass  of 
wine  and  talking  of  the  old  days.  He  consulted  a 
doctor  about  this  time,  who  told  him  that  his  heart  was 
affected.  This  was  good  news  to  FitzGerald,  who 
manifested  singular  cheerfulness  at  the  announcement, 
as  holding  out  to  him  a  prospect  of  the  sudden  death 
which  he  desired.  In  the  same  year  Spedding  finished 
his  monumental  edition  of  Bacon,  the  fourteenth  volume 
appearing  at  that  date (1874),  "I  always  look  upon 
old  Spedding's  as  one  of  the  most  wasted  lives  I  know," 
said  FitzGerald  cheerfully,  adding  that  Spedding  had 
only  succeeded  in  establishing  that  view  of  Bacon's 
character  which  he  set  out  to  dissipate. 

In  the  same  year  FitzGerald  paid  a  pilgrimage  to 
Abbotsford,  and  found  himself  full  of  emotion ;  but  he 
could  now  less  and  less  bear  to  be  away  from  home, 
and  hurried  back  to  Littlegrange  after  three  days. 

One  of  FitzGerald's  chief  correspondents  at  this 
time  was  Fanny  Kemble,  whom  he  sincerely  loved, 
though  he  confessed  he  did  not  care  for  her  acting. 
She  was  a  lively,  witty,  vivacious  woman,  with  a  tender 
heart;  she  wrote  in  1875  some  reminiscences  of  Fitz- 
Gerald and  others,  which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  but  they  were  couched  in  so  eulogistic  a  style 
that  FitzGerald  felt  bound  to  paste  a  piece  of  paper, 
in  his  own  copy,  over  the  passage  which  concerned 
himself.  His  letters  to  her,  tender,  fanciful,  affec- 
tionate, are  among  the  best  he  wrote. 


III.]  LATER  YEARS  57 

In  1876  Tennyson  appeared  at  Woodbridge  with  his 
son  Hallam.  FitzGerald,  who  had  not  seen  his  old 
friend  for  twenty  years,  was  characteristically  pleased  to 
find  that  the  son  called  his  father  "Papa,"  and  not 
"Governor."  Thinking  that  his  visitors  would  not 
be  comfortable  at  Littlegrange,  he  installed  them  at 
the  Bull  Inn.  They  revived  old  memories,  and  Fitz- 
Gerald took  occasion  to  tell  Tennyson  that  he  had 
better  not  have  written  anything  after  1842,  adding 
that  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  poet,  and  had  become  an 
artist,  a  remark  which  Tennyson  seems  to  have  taken 
in  good  part.  It  is  amusing  to  note  that  in  the  course 
of  the  evening  they  spent  together  FitzGerald  uttered 
some  pieces  of  local  gossip  which  he  thought  indiscreet, 
for  he  said  to  Tennyson  gravely:  "Don't  let  this  go 
to  the  Bull." 

Tennyson  seems  to  have  been  much  struck  by  the 
picture  presented  by  FitzGerald,  who  sat  talking  under 
a  tree,  with  his  hair  moving  in  the  wind,  and  his 
pigeons  alighting  on  his  hand  or  shoulder,  curtseying 
or  cooing,  and  he  embodied  the  scene  in  the  Dedication 
to  his  Tiresias  volume,  which  FitzGerald  did  not  live 
to  see  : — 

"  Old  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb  grange, 

Where  once  I  tarriod  for  ;i  while, 
Glance  at  the  wheeling  Orb  of  change, 

And  greet  it  with  a  kindly  smile  ; 
Whom  yet  I  see  as  there  you  sit 

Beneath  your  sheltering  gurden-trce, 
And  while  your  doves  about  you  Hit, 

And  plant  on  shoulder,  hand,  and  kuee, 
Or  on  your  head  their  rosy  feet. 

As  if  they  know  your  diet  .spares 
Whatever  moved  in  that  full  sheet, 

Let  down  to  Peter  at  his  prayers  ; 
Who  live  on  milk  and  meal  and  'Tuss." 


58  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

In  1877  and  1878  FitzGerald  amused  himself  by 
contributing  local  notes  to  the  Ipswich  Journal,  signing 
them  Effigy,  which  stood  for  E.  F.  G.  But  shadows 
fell  across  the  peaceful  path.  In  1877  one  of  his 
old  friends,  a  boatman  named  West,  died  ;  and  Fitz- 
Gerald  could  no  longer  bear  the  pleasant  reaches 
of  the  Deben,  where  they  had  so  often  sailed  to- 
gether. A  nephew  too  died,  Maurice,  the  son  of 
John  FitzGerald,  a  young  man  of  some  literary  pro- 
mise, who  had  published  a  version  of  the  Hippolytus, 
but  with  family  irresolution  had  failed  to  make  the 
most  of  his  gifts. 

In  1878  he  drew  up  and  printed  a  Chronology  of  the 
life  of  Charles  Lamb.  "I  drew  it  up  for  myself,"  he 
writes,  "because  I  often  find  myself  puzzled  about  the 
dates  in  the  dear  fellow's  life."  Pollock  called  the 
book  "  Cotelette  d'Agneau  a  la  Minute,"  and  the  name 
pleased  FitzGerald;  he  himself  naming  it  "Some 
Stepping-stones  in  dear  Charles  Lamb." 

In  1879  Omar  appeared  again  in  the  foiu'th  edition, 
bound  up  with  Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl.  And  in  the  same 
year  FitzGerald  brought  out  his  little  book,  Readings 
from  Crabhe,  with  an  introduction.  He  was  pleased  with 
the  book,  and  thought  it  "very  dexterously"  done. 

"  Then — my  Crabbe  is  printing — Hurrah,  Boys  !  "  he 
wrote  to  Pollock. 

The  writings  of  Crabbe  had  always  possessed  a  great 
fascination  for  FitzGerald.  The  cause  of  this  is  not 
far  to  seek.  FitzGerald  had  the  strong  perception  of 
the  beauty  and  interest  of  ordinary  and  homely  life 
which  Crabbe  felt  so  strongly.  FitzGerald  found 
himself  too  in  harmony  with  one  who  tried  to  see  life 
steadily,  without  either  disguising  or  improving  it. 
Then,  too,  Crabbc's  aromatic  humour  pleased  him,  a 
humour  which    was    not   inconsistent    v,-ith   a    strong 


m.]  LATER  YEARS  59 

sense  of  the  pathos  and  sadness  of  life;  and  here 
again  FitzGerald  was  in  tune  with  the  poet.  Even 
the  very  artlessness  of  Crabbe,  which  led  to  his 
being  called  "  Pope  in  worsted  stockings,"  pleased 
FitzGerald ;  he  says  in  the  little  introduction  which 
he  published  to  his  selection  from  the  Tale?;  of  fJte  Hall, 
that  the  book  "shares  with  the  Poet's  other  works  in 
the  characteristic  disregard  of  form  and  diction — of 
all  indeed  that  is  now  called  '  Art.' "  FitzGerald  had 
indeed  little  sympathy  with  the  modern  claims  of  art. 
The  \\ew  which  would  make  of  art  a  kind  of  holy 
and  solemn  creed,  an  esoteric  and  mystical  initiation, 
preaching  the  duty  of  "self-effectuation"  for  the  artist 
— this  was  instinctively  repugnant  to  FitzGerald.  He 
quotes  with  approval  Scott's  breezy  dictum  that  he 
did  not  care  a  curse  for  what  he  wrote.  The  brother- 
hood of  art,  with  its  difficult  secrets,  its  consecration, 
its  vocation  would  have  seemed  to  FitzGerald  little 
better  than  nonsense.  His  view  rather  was  that  one 
who  loved  beauty  and  man  might  speak,  as  simply 
and  directly  as  he  could,  without  undue  care  for 
stateliness  and  propriety  of  expression,  of  what  was 
in  his  heart.  This  was  his  own  way  and  this  was 
Crabbe's  way. 

In  his  old  age,  FitzGerald  found  himself  loving  the 
Tales  of  the  Hall  better  than  the  earlier  work,  with  its 
more  bitter  and  saturnine  flavour.  He  says,  quoting 
8ir  "Walter  Scott,  that  "its  characters  look  back 
with  a  kind  of  humorous  retrospect  over  their  own 
lives,  cheerfully  extending  to  others  the  same  kindly 
indidgencc  Avhich  they  solicit  for  themselves."  "The 
book,  if  I  mistake  not,"  he  goes  on,  "deals  ratlier 
vith  the  follies  than  with  the  vices  of  men,  with  the 
comedy  rather  tliaii  with  the  tragedy  of  life.  An(l 
even    the    more    sombre    subjects    of    the    buck    arc 


60  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

relieved  by  the  colloquial  intercourse  of  the  narrators, 
which  twines  about  every  story,  and,  letting  in 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  country  round,  encircles 
them  all  Avith  something  of  dramatic  unity  and 
interest,  insomuch  that  of  all  the  Poet's  works  this 
one  alone  does  not  leave  a  more  or  less  melancholy 
impression  upon  me ;  and,  as  I  am  myself  more  than 
old  enough  to  love  the  sunny  side  of  the  wall,  is  on 
that  account,  I  do  not  say  the  best,  but  certainly  that 
which  I  like  best  of  all  his  numerous  offspring." 

FitzGerald  treats  Crabbe  as  he  was  inclined  to  treat 
all  his  favourites ;  in  some  cases  he  transposes  Crabbe's 
narrative  to  make  it  clearer;  and  it  seems  that  he 
must  have  amused  himself  by  making  marginal  altera- 
tions in  his  own  copy,  of  expressions  which  seemed 
to  him  to  be  faulty ;  for  he  apologises  for  the  possible 
intrusion  of  such  alterations  into  the  text.  "Any 
poetaster,"  he  adds,  "can  amend  many  a  careless 
expression  which  blemishes  a  passage  that  none  but 
a  poet  could  indite." 

He  is  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  Crabbe  is  a  poet 
the  effect  of  whose  verse  can  hardly  be  seen  in 
selections.  The  true  impression  of  Crabbe  would 
result,  he  says,  "from  being,  as  it  were,  soaked  in 
through  the  longer  process  by  which  the  man's  peculiar 
genius  works." 

Two  other  points  probably  drew  FitzGerald  to 
Crabbe.  They  both  of  them  had  a  rich  store  of 
sentiment  and  a  capacity  for  "  falling  in  love,"  so  to 
speak,  with  people ;  indeed  in  Crabbe's  case  this  led 
to  some  inconvenient  and  undignified  philandering  in 
his  old  age ;  but  the  cause  was  the  same ;  they  both 
felt  the  same  intimate  and  almost  passionate  interest 
in  humanity  which  made  them  minute  and  tender 
observers  of  inen. 


III.]  LATER  YEARS  61 

Then  too,  and  in  FitzGerald's  case  this  must  not  be 
neglected — there  was  the  family  link,  constituted  by 
FitzGerald's  close  friendship  with  the  son  and  the 
grandson  of  the  poet.  FitzGerald  started  with  a 
predisposition  to  admire  the  work  of  those  he  loved, 
not  only  for  its  intrinsic  merits,  but  because  it  was  a 
part  of  them.  His  own  feeling  about  the  little  book 
was  as  follows  :  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Kemble  : — 

"  You  can  tell  me  if  you  will — and  I  wish  you  would — 
whether  I  hud  better  keep  the  little  Opus  to  ourselves,  or  let 
it  take  its  chance  of  getting  a  few  readers  in  public.  You 
may  tell  me  this  very  plainly,  I  am  sure  ;  and  I  shall  be 
quite  as  well  pleased  to  keep  it  unpublished.  It  is  only  a 
very,  very,  little  Job,  you  see  :  requiring  only  a  little  Tastt" 
and  Tact :  and  if  they  have  failed  me — Voila!  I  had  some 
pleasure  in  doing  my  little  work  very  dexterously,  I  thought  ; 
and  I  did  wish  to  draw  a  few  readers  to  one  of  my  favourite 
Books  which  nobody  reads.  And,  now  that  I  look  over  it,  I 
fancy  that  I  have  missed  my  aim — only  that  my  Friends  will 
like,  etc." 

In  the  same  year,  1879,  FitzGerald's  elder  brother 
died,  of  a  painful  disorder,  after  great  suffering. 
Edward  could  not  bring  himself  to  attend  the  funeral. 
The  estates  of  Boulge  and  Irwell  were  sold,  the  only 
surviving  sou  of  John,  Gerald,  dying  a  month  after  his 
father. 

Occasionally  FitzGerald  slipped  up  to  London  ;  there 
is  a  charming  vignette  at  this  time  : — ■ 

"...  WhtMi  I  was  in  London,  I  went  to  morning  Service 
in  Westminster  Abbey  ;  and,  as  I  sat  in  the  Poet's  Corner 
Transept,  I  looked  down  for  the  .stone  that  covers  the  remains 
of  Charles  Dickens,  but  it  may  have  been  covered  by  the 
worshippers  there.  I  had  not  been  inside  that  Abbey  for 
twenty  years,  I  believe  ;  and  it  seemed  very  grand  to  me  ; 
and  the  old  Organ  rolled  and  swam  with  the  Boys'  voices  on 
the   Top  through   the   fretted   vault,  as   you   know.      Except 


62  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

that,  I  heard  no  music,  and  saw  no  Sights,  save  in  the 
Streets." 

FitzGerald's  country  solitude  was  cheered  by  visits 
from  Charles  Keene,  the  great  black-and-white  artist, 
and  other  friends.  Charles  Keene  had  been  a  school- 
fellow of  Cowell's  at  Ipswich.  He  was  a  shy  creature, 
brightening  up  among  friends,  abstemious,  fond  of 
music,  fond  of  old  English  books ;  he  liked  untidiness 
and  tobacco  smoke,  and  was  careless  about  his  dress 
— in  every  way  a  congenial  companion  for  FitzGerald. 

In  December  another  of  the  FitzGerald  family  circle 
died,  his  sister,  Mrs.  De  Soyres,  leaving  only  Edward 
and  Mrs.  AVilkinson.  Long  years  before  he  had  told 
Tennyson  of  her  engagement,  saying  that  his  sister 
was  about  to  marry  "a  Mr.  Wilkinson,  a  clergyman." 
Tennyson  had  seized  upon  the  fact  that  the  words 
made  a  line  of  blank  verse,  and  aptly  illustrated 
Wordsworth's  weakest  manner.  He  and  FitzGerald 
used  laughingly  to  dispute  the  ownership  of  the  line. 

In  1880  FitzGerald  found  in  an  old  portfolio  a  little 
paper  on  the  Black  Horse  inn  and  mill  of  Baldock, 
\vhich  he  had  written  twenty-three  years  before  ;  and 
this  he  now  published  in  TemjAe  Bar ;  he  was  a  good 
deal  at  Lowestoft  this  year  with  the  Cowells,  Mr.  Aldis 
Wright,  and  the  faithful  Posh ;  and  he  visited  Crabljc 
(the  third)  at  his  Rectory  of  Merton.  FitzGerald  was 
restless,  melancholy,  and  dissatisfied ;  his  health  grew 
worse,  and  the  disease  of  the  heart  made  progress. 
But  he  %'.'as  not  inactive.  He  took  out  his  versions 
of  the  two  plays  of  ffidipus,  which  he  had  practically 
completed  twenty-four  years  before,  and  printed  them 
in  two  parts,  issuing  only  fift}^  copies  of  each. 

Carlyle  died  in  1881,  and  in  the  following  month 
James  Spedding  was  run  over  by  a  cab,  and  carried 
hopelessly  injured  to  St.  George's  Hospital.     Spedding 


111.]  LATER  YEARS  63 

died  like  a  Christian  and  a  philosopher,  only  expressing 
a  wish  that  the  cab  had  done  its  work  more  thoroughly. 
"I  have  not  known,"  FitzGerald  wrote  to  Spedding's 
niece,  "no,  nor  heard  of,  any  mortal  so  prepared  to 
step  unchanged  into  the  better  world  we  are  promised." 

In  the  summer  of  1881  FitzGerald  went  to  Cam- 
bridge to  see  the  Cowells,  then  living  in  Scroop  Ter- 
race. Pie  went  to  see  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  and  felt  at 
home  in  his  book-lined  rooms. 

In  the  winter  he  was  at  AVoodbridge  again. 

"...  I  suppose  that  you  in  Jersey  have  had  no  winter  yet ; 
for  even  here  thrushes  pipe  a  little,  anemones  make  a  pale 
show,  and  I  can  sit  in  my  indoor  clothing  on  a  Bench  without, 
so  long  as  the  Sun  shines.  I  can  read  but  little,  and  count  of 
my  Boy's  coming  at  Night,  to  read  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  some 
Travel  or  Biography,  that  amuses  him  as  well  as  me.  We  are 
now  beginning  the  Fortunes  of  Ki'jeJ,  which  I  had  not  ex- 
pected to  care  for,  and  shall  possibly  weary  of  before  it  ends  ; 
but  the  outset  is  nothing  less  than  ddightfxd  to  me.  I  think 
that  Miss  Austen,  George  Eliot  and  Co.  have  not  yet  quite 
extinguished  him,  in  his  later  lights." 

Ill  1882  he  went  to  London  and  saw  his  old  friend 
Donne,  who  lay  dying,  and  the  Kembles.  "Donne," 
he  said  tenderly,  "ah,  there  is  a  man  without  a  fault— 
the  least  selfish  man  I  ever  knew.  ' 

He  wrote  sadly  to  Mr.  Aldis  AN'right : — 

"...  My  dear  Donne  was  given  over  by  the  Doctor  soiue 
ten  days  ago  ;  but  has  since  rallied — to  go  through  the  trial 
again  I '"' 

FitzGerald  always  classed  Donne  and  Spcdding 
together  as  two  men  of  great  abilities  and  profound 
minds  who,  in  spite  of  leading  laborious  lives,  had  pro- 
duced I'csults  so  little  commensurate  with  tlicir  poAvers. 

FitzGerald's  thoughts  in  these  last  years  turned 
much   to   the    pleasant  haunts   of   his  youth,    and   he 


64  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

made  a  farewell  pilgrimage  to  Aldeburgh.  "  There  is 
no  sea  like  the  Aldeburgh  sea,"  he  said  to  Alfred  Smith, 
as  they  paced  the  beach.  "  It  talks  to  me."  He  was 
feeling  the  approaches  of  age. 

"...  I  have  not  yet  quite  lost  my  Cold,  and  yon  know 
how  one  used  to  hear  that  so  it  was  with  Old  Age  :  and  now 
we  find  it  so.  Now  the  Sun  shows  his  honest  face  I  get  more 
abroad,  and  have  been  sitting  out  under  his  blessed  rays  this 
very  day,  which  People  tell  me  is  quite  indiscreet.  But  I  do 
not  find  the  breath  from  Heaven  direct  nearly  so  trying  as 
through  a  Keyhole." 

''•...  I  am  better  off  than  many — if  not  most — of  my 
contemporaries  ;  and  there  is  not  nuich  [worth]  living  for 
after  seventy-four." 

A  little  honour  fell  to  him  this  year  which  pleased 
him.  The  Spanish  Ambassador  sent  him  the  Calderon 
Gold  Medal  in  recognition  of  his  translations. 

He  got  through  the  winter  without  any  return  of 
the  bronchial  troubles  that  had  of  late  threatened  him 
in  the  cold  weather.  But  he  felt  his  end  approaching. 
"We  none  of  us  get  beyond  seventy-five,"  he  said 
to  a  friend;  and  he  often  spoke  of  "smelling  the 
ground,"  as  the  sailors  say  of  a  ship  in  shoaling 
water.  He  made  his  will  very  carefully,  and  he  packed 
his  unpublished  books  in  a  tin  box,  with  a  letter 
addressed  to  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  expecting  and  indeed 
hoping  that  his  end  would  be  a  sudden  one.  He  began 
to  disperse  his  books  and  pictures,  sending  Mrs. 
Tennyson  Laurence's  portrait  of  Tennyson.  He  stole 
up  to  London  to  see  Carlyle's  statue  and  the  house  in 
Cheyne  Eow,  and  fell  to  weeping. 

But  he  could  still  be  merry ;  a  friend  records  that 
as  he  sat  with  FitzGerald  in  May  1883  at  Woodbridge, 
on  a  bench  beside  the  river,  FitzGerald  called  out  to 
a  small  boy  wading  in  the  ooze,  "  Little  boy,  did  you 


III.]  LATER  YEARS  65 

never  hoar  tell  of  the  fate  of  the  Mastex*  of  Ravens- 
Avood  1  "  and  then  he  told  the  child  the  story. 

He  received,  too,  a  visit  from  an  old  friend,  Arch- 
deacon Groome,  a  lover  of  music,  who  talked  to  him 
about  the  famous  singers  they  had  heard  in  their 
youth,  and  made  FitzGerald  laugh  very  heartily  by 
imitating  Vaughan's  singing. 

On  the  13th  of  June  1883,  he  set  off  for  Morton 
liectory,  taking  with  him  a  book  or  two,  into  the 
leaves  of  which  he  slipped  some  bank-notes,  as  was 
his  wont,  for  current  expenses.  The  day  before  he 
set  off  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Laurence.  It  was  the 
last  letter  he  was  ever  to  write  : — 

"My  dear  Laurenck, — It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  remember 
one  who  does  so  little  to  remind  you  of  himself.  Your 
drawing  of  Allen  always  seemed  to  me  excellent,  for  wliicli 
reason  it  was  that  I  thought  his  Wife  should  have  it,  as  being 
the  Record  of  her  husband  in  his  younger  days.  So  of  the 
portrait  of  Tennyson  which  I  gave  his  Wife.  Not  that  I 
did  not  value  them  myself,  but  because  I  did  value  them,  as 
the  most  agreeable  Portraits  I  knew  of  the  two  men  ;  and, 
for  that  very  reason,  presented  them  to  those  whom  they  were 
naturally  dearer  to  than  even  to  myself.  I  have  never  liked 
any  Portrait  of  Tennyson  since  he  grew  a  Beard  ;  Allen,  I 
suppose,  has  kept  out  of  that. 

"If  I  do  not  write,  it  is  because  I  have  absolutely  notliing 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  not  known  for  the  last  twenty  years. 
Here  I  live  still,  reading,  and  being  read  to,  part  of  my  time  ; 
walking  abroad  three  or  four  times  a  day,  or  night,  in  spite  of 
wakening  a  Bronchitis,  which  has  lodged  like  the  household 
'Brownie'  within;  pottering  about  my  (rarden  (as  I  have 
just  V)oen  doing)  and  snipping  oft' dead  I'osos  like  Miss  Tox  ; 
and  now  and  then  a  visit  to  the  neighbouring  Seaside,  and  a 
splash  to  Sea  in  one  of  the  Boats.  I  never  see  a  new  Pifturo, 
nor  hear  a  note  of  Music  except  when  I  drum  out  some  old 
Tune  in  Winter  on  an  Organ,  which  might  almost  be  carried 
about  the  Stn cts  witli  a  handle  to  turn,  and  a  Monkey  on  thu 
E 


6G  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap.  hi. 

top  of  it.  So  I  go  on,  living  a  life  far  too  comfortable  as 
compared  with  that  of  better,  and  wiser  men  :  but  ever  ex- 
pecting a  reverse  in  health  such  as  my  seventy-five  years  are 

subject  to.      What  a  tragedy  is  that  of  !      So  brisk, 

bright,  good,  a  little  woman,  who  seemed  made  to  live  !  And 
now  the  Doctors  allot  her  but  two  years  longer  at  most,  and 

her  friends  think  that  a  year  will  see  the  End  !  and  poor , 

tender,  true,  and  brave  I  His  letters  to  me  are  quite  fine  in 
telling  about  it.  !Mrs.  Kemble  wrote  me  word  some  two  or 
three  months  ago  that  he  was  looking  very  old  :  no  wonder. 
I  am  told  that  she  keeps  up  her  Spirits  the  better  of  the  two. 
Ah,  Providence  might  have  spared  pauvre  et  triste  Humanite 
that  Trial,  together  with  a  few  others  which  (one  would 
think)  would  have  made  no  difference  to  its  Supremacy. 
'  Voila  via  petite  protestation  respeduense  a  la  Providence,'  as 
Madame  de  Scvigne  says. 

"  To-morrow  I  am  going  (for  my  one  annual  Visit)  to 
G.  Crabbe's,  where  I  am  to  meet  his  Sisters,  and  talk  over 
old  Bredfield  Vicarage  days.  Two  of  my  eight  Nieces  are 
now  with  me  here  in  my  house,  for  a  two  months'  visit,  I 
suppose  and  hope.  And  I  think  this  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you 
of. — Yours  ever  sincerely,  E.  F.  G.'' 

He  travelled  by  Bury,  and  "went  to  look  at  the  old 
school.  He  was  met  at  the  station  by  the  Rector  and 
driven  to  the  Rectory.  He  talked  cheerfully  about 
Bury  at  tea,  and  walked  in  the  garden.  But  the 
journey  had  tired  him,  and  he  went  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock. 
How  his  end  came  to  him  is  not  known ;  but  when  a 
servant  went  to  call  him  in  the  morning  of  June  14th, 
he  gave  no  answer,  and  it  was  found  that  he  had 
died  quietly  in  the  night,  as  he  had  desired  to  die. 

His  body  was  taken  to  Littlegrangc,  and  he  was 
buried  beneath  the  church  tower  at  Boulge,  with  the 
words  on  his  tomb  that  Cowell  had  taught  him  to  love: — 
"  It  is  He  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves."' 

Mi's.  FitzGerald  survived  him  for  fifteen  years,  and 
died  (1898)  at  a  great  age  at  her  house  at  Croydon. 


CHAPTER    II 

FRIENDS 

It  may  be  admitted  that  FitzGerald's  fame  partly 
depends  upon  the  accident  of  his  having  been  the 
chosen  friend  of  several  remarkable  men.  But  even 
allowing  his  close  contact  Avith  such  memorable  person- 
alities as  Tennyson,  Carlyle,  Thackeray,  and  Spedding 
to  have  been  accidental,  the  qualities  which  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  win  and  retain  so  warm,  so  supreme 
a  regard  from  them  were  far  from  accidental.  To 
those  whom  he  loved,  even  after  long  absences,  he  M-as 
always  the  same ;  though  in  the  case  of  Cowell  he 
experienced  a  certain  ditficiilty  in  taking  up  the  old 
friendship  again  on  the  same  terms  after  his  friend's 
long  absence  in  India. 

This  devotion  was  not  inconsistent  in  FitzGerald's 
case  with  an  extreme  clear-sightedness  as  to  the 
character  of  his  friends.  He  admired  them  generously ; 
but  he  also  took  sevei'e  account  of  their  faults  and 
foibles.  Nor  did  he  ever  attempt  to  .slur  o^cr  the 
amiable  weaknesses  he  discerned.  He  did  not  think  a 
friend  a  jioct  because,  as  in  the  case  of  Bernard  Baiton, 
he  happened  to  write  verses,  or  an  artist,  because,  like 
Edwards,  he  painted  pictures. 

Another  remarka])le  trait  in  FitzGei-ald's  behaviour 
to  his  friends  is  that  no  matter  how  gi'cat  or  famous 
they  became,  theie  was  ne\cr  the  least  symptom  of 
deference    or    conscious     inferioritv    in     FitzGerald's 


68  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

attitude,  though  perhaps  we  may  discern  faint  traces 
of  a  mild  envy.  If  he  avoided,  as  he  sometimes  seemed 
to  do,  the  society  of  his  more  distinguished  friends, 
it  was  not  that  he  felt  on  terms  of  inequality,  but 
that  he  was  morbidly  afraid  of  being  involved  in 
their  extended  social  circle. 

The  friends  to  whom  FitzGerald  was  most  devotedly 
attached  were  probably  W.  K.  Browne,  Archdeacon 
Allen,  Frederic  Tennyson,  and  Mr.  Aldis  AVright;  and  to 
these  he  displayed  the  greatest  tenderness  and  fidelity; 
but  it  will  be  worth  while  to  trace  a  little  more  in 
detail  his  relations  with  the  four  still  more  famous 
friends,  Tennyson,  Carlylc,  Thackeray,  and  Spedding  ; 
for  these  friendships  exhibit  FitzGerald  in  the  clearest 
light,  and  show  how  strong  his  critical  power  was. 

FitzGerald  began  by  having  an  overwhelming  ad- 
miration for  Tennyson  both  as  a  poet  and  a  man.  He 
gave  Mrs.  Kerablc  the  following  interesting  description 
of  his  early  appearance  in  undergraduate  days  : — 

"  At  that  time  he  looked  something  like  Hyperion  shorn  of 
his  Beams  in  Keats's  Poem  :  with  a  Pipe  in  his  mouth. 
Afterwards  he  got  a  touch,  I  used  to  say,  of  Haydon's 
Lazarus." 

But  the  early  relations  ])etween  the  two  are  finely 
exemplified  in  the  following  letter,  which  FitzGerald 
wrote  to  Tennyson  in  1835  : — 

"  I  have  heard  you  sometimes  say  that  you  are  bound  l)y 
the  want  of  such  and  such  a  sum,  and  I  vow  to  the  Lord  that 
I  could  not  have  a  greater  pleasure  than  transferring  it  to  you 
on  such  occasions  ;  I  should  not  dare  to  say  such  a  thing  to  a 
small  man,  but  you  are  not  such  a  small  man  assuredly  ;  and 
even  if  you  do  not  make  use  of  my  offer,  you  will  not  be 
offended,  but  put  it  to  the  right  account.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  persuade  people  in  this  world  that  one  can  part  from  a 


IV.]  FRIENDS  69 

bank-note  without  a  pang.  It  is  one  of  the  most  simple 
things  I  have  ever  done  to  talk  thus  to  you,  I  believe  ;  but 
here  is  an  end,  and  be  charitable  to  me." 

FitzGcrald  saw,  probaMy  more  clearly  than  any 
one,  the  extraordinary  originality  and  genins  which 
Tennyson  displayed  hy  flashes  in  his  ordinary  talk. 
He  made  a  collection  of  these  dicta  in  a  note-book, 
but  though  the  volume  was  lost,  FitzGerald  retained 
many  small  reminiscences  in  his  mind,  and  several  of 
them  are  given  in  the  Life  of  the  poet.  Thus,  writing 
to  Professor  Norton,  in  187G,  he  said: — 

"Dante's  face  I  have  not  seen  these  ten  years:  only  his 
Back  on  my  Book  Shelf.  What  Mr.  Lowell  says  of  him 
recalled  to  me  what  Tennyson  said  to  me  some  thirty-five  or 
forty  years  ago.  We  were  stopping  before  a  shop  in  Regent 
Street  where  were  two  Figures  of  Dante  and  Goethe.  I  (I 
suppose)  said,  '  What  is  there  in  old  Dante's  Face  that  is 
missing  in  Goethe's  V  And  Tennyson  (whose  Profile  then 
had  certainly  a  remarkable  likeness  to  Dante's)  said:  'The 
Divine.' " 

FitzGerald  welcomed  the  early  poems  of  Tennyson 
with  a  rapturous  enthusiasm,  kindled  ])y  the  sweet 
and  generous  sympathies  of  youth,  rather  than  based 
upon  critical  appreciation.  But  his  judgment  con- 
firmed what  his  heart  suggested.  He  saw,  perhaps 
as  clearly  as  they  could  be  seen,  the  pure  beauty,  the 
noble  originality  of  Tennyson's  first  lyrics. 

liut  the  sk}'  giadually  clouded  o^  cr.  The  two  drew 
apait  so  far  as  ])hysical  pr()})in(|uity  went,  and  a  slow 
change  passed  over  Fit/Xircralds  view  of  Tennyson's 
powers,  and  the  use  lie  was  making  of  them.  His  \\v\\ 
was  hardly  that  tlie  later  woi'ks  were  not  in  themselves 
beautiful,  but  he  liad  set  his  heart  on  Tmnyson  jjio- 
ducing  some  colossal  moinniieiital  work  of  an  ejtical 
kind.     He   ha<l  hoped   to   see  him  coiicciitraie  all  liis 


70  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [(  hap. 

powers  to  some  such  poem,  and  he  was  distressed  to 
find  him  becoming,  as  he  thought,  diffuse  and  senti- 
mental. The  LhjJls  disappointed  him,  because  he  did 
not  care  for  epics  of  chivalry,  and  disliked  the  episodical 
handling  of  the  subject. 

Slowly  the  disapproval  increased,  and  though  per- 
haps FitzGerald  was  unfair  to  the  later  work,  yet  his 
verdict  will  not  improbably  be  re-echoed  by  future 
critics  :  namely,  that  on  Tennyson's  early  work  lies,  so 
to  speak,  the  dew  of  the  morning ;  and  that  the  great 
vogue  he  enjoyed,  couj)led  with  advancing  years,  the 
seductive  influences  of  widespread  popularity,  and 
possibly  even  more  material  considei'ations,  did  effect  a 
certain  change  in  his  power  of  conception  though  not 
in  his  technical  skill. 

Thus  FitzGerald  wrote  to  Frederic  Tennyson  in  1850, 
that  none  of  the  songs  inserted  between  the  cantos  of 
The  Princess  had  "  the  old  chamjjagne  flavour  " ;  and 
very  soon,  in  a  peevish  fashion,  he  lost  faith  in  Tenny- 
son altogether,  and  began  to  rail  at,  or  rather  moan 
over,  each  of  his  successive  productions  in  turn.  He 
spoke  his  mind  quite  plainly  about  it  to  the  friends 
of  the  poet,  and  even  to  the  poet  himself.  Thus  he 
wrote  to  Frederic  Tennyson  in  1850  : — 

"You  know  Alfred  liimself  never  writes,  nor  indeed  cares  a 
halfpenny  about  one,  thougli  he  is  very  well  satisfied  to  see 
one  when  one  falls  in  his  way.  You  will  think  I  have  a 
spite  against  him  for  some  neglect,  when  I  say  this,  and  say 
besides  that  I  cannot  care  for  his  In  Memoriam.  Not  so,  if 
I  know  myself :  I  always  thought  the  same  of  him,  and  was 
just  as  well  satisfied  with  it  as  now.  His  poem  I  never  did 
greatly  affect  :  nor  can  I  learn  to  do  so  :  it  is  full  of  finest 
things,  but  it  is  monotonous,  and  has  that  air  of  being  evolved 
by  a  Poetical  Machine  of  the  highest  order.  So  it  seems  to 
be  with  him  now,  at  least  to  me,  the  Impetus,  the  Lyrical 
tt'strus,  is  gone.  ...  It  is  the  cursed  inactivity  (very  pleasant 


IV.]  FRIENDS  71 

to  me  who  am  no  Hero)  of  this  19th  century  which  has  spoiled 
Alfred,  I  mean  spoiled  him  for  the  great  work  he  ought  now 
to  be  entering  upon  ;  the  lovely  and  noble  things  he  has  done 
must  remain.  It  is  dangerous  work  this  prophesying  about 
great  Men.  .  .  ." 

As  the  years  went  on,  FitzGcrald  began  to  feel 
more  and  more  that  the  poet  was  being  lost  in  the 
artist,  and  that  the  artist  "  had  not  the  wherewithal 
to  work  on."'  He  felt  with  Carlyle  that  somehow  or 
other  the  great  vigour,  the  splendid  fighting  qualities  of 
Tennyson,  had  not  found  expression  either  in  thought 
or  life.  He  thought  that  the  poet  was  being  "  suffocated 
by  London  adulation,"  and  that  he  was  parting  with 
originality,  freshness,  and  sincerity  of  aim.  "  He  has 
lost,"  he  wrote,  "that  which  caused  the  long  roll  of 
the  Lincolnshire  wave  to  reverberate  in  Locksley 
Hall." 

Though  he  could  even  so  make  some  generous  allow- 
ance : — "pure,  lofty,  and  noble  as  he  always  is,"  he 
wrote,  near  the  end  of  his  life,  with  a  flash  of  the  old 
admiration. 

Perhaps  his  most  deliberate  judgment  on  Tennyson 
occurs  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Kemble,  wliere  he  touches 
with  a  firm  hand  the  weak  point  in  Tennyson's  life ; 
— the  weak  point,  indeed,  in  FitzGerald's  own  life — 
the  self-absorption  born  of  seclusion,  and  the  want 
of  practical  activity  telling  on  a  temperament  whose 
melancholy  demanded  a  certain  hcaltliy  objectivity 
never  attained.  He  is  .^i)caking  of  "Posh,"  and  con- 
tinues : — 

"  T  thought  that  both  Tennyson  and  Tlmekeray  were 
inferior  to  him  in  respeet  of  Tliiiiking  of  Tiieinselves.  When 
Tennyson  was  telling  me  of  \io\v  the  Quartrrhj  alui.-rd  liiin 
(humorously,  too),  aiul  dt'sirous  of  knowing  why  one  did  nut 
care  for  his  later  works,  etc.,  I  thought  that  if  he   had   lived 


72  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

an  active  Life,  as  Scott  and  Shakespeare  ;  or  even  ridden,  shot, 
drunk,  and  played  the  Devil,  as  Byron,  he  would  have  done 
much  more,  and  talked  about  it  much  less.  '  You  know,'  said 
Scott  to  Lockhart,  '  that  I  don't  care  a  Curse  about  what  I 
write,'  and  one  sees  he  did  nut.  I  don't  believe  it  was  far 
otherwise  with  Shakespeare.  Even  old  Wordsworth,  wrapped 
up  in  his  Mountain  mists,  and  proud  as  he  was,  was  above  all 
this  vain  Disquietude  :  proud,  not  vain,  was  he  :  and  that 
a  Great  Man  (as  Dante)  has  some  right  to  be — but  not  to  care 
what  the  Coteries  say.     What  a  Eigmarole  !  " 

And  yet  the  personal  regard  remained  undimmed 
and  unabated.  Year  after  year  FitzGerald  kept  in 
touch  with  the  poet  and  his  family  circle  by  whimsical, 
delicate,  loving  letters ;  and  Tennyson,  too,  when 
asked  at  the  end  of  his  life  which  of  his  friends  he 
had  loved  the  best,  would  reply  unhesitatingly,  "Why, 
old  Fitz,  to  be  sure  ! "' 

FitzGerald's  personal  acquaintance  witliCarlyle  began 
in  1842  when  Thackeray,  or,  according  to  another 
account,  Samuel  Laurence,  took  him  to  tea  in  Carlyle's 
house.  Their  friendship  ripened  over  the  exploration 
of  Xaseby  Field,  and  in  1846  they  were  writing  to  each 
other  as  "Dear  Carlyle  '  and  "Dear  FitzGerald." 

The  following  is  a  little  account  of  a  visit  he  paid 
Carlyle  in  1844  : — 

"  I  smoked  a  pipe  with  Carlyle  yesterday.  We  ascended 
froni  his  dining-room  carrying  pipes  and  tobacco  up  through 
two  stories  of  his  house,  and  got  into  a  little  dressing-room 
near  the  roof  :  there  we  sat  down  :  the  window  was  open,  and 
looked  out  on  nursery  gardens,  their  almond  trees  in  blossom, 
and  beyond,  bare  walls  of  houses,  and  over  the^e,  roofs  and 
chimneys,  and  roofs  and  chinmeys,  and  here  and  there  a 
steeple,  and  whole  London  crowned  with  darkness  gathering 
behind  like  the  illimitable  resources  of  a  dream.  I  tried  to 
persuade  him  to  leave  the  accursed  den,  and  he  wished — but 
— Ijut — perhaps  he  dichi't  wish  on  the  whole.'' 


IV.]  FRIENDS  73 

And  to  their  later  relations  a  touehing  letter  of 
Carlyle's,  in  1868,  hears  witness: — 

"Dear  FitzGkrai>d, — Thanks  for  inquiring  after  me 
again.  I  am  in  my  usual  Aveak  state  of  bodily  health,  not 
much  worse,  I  imagine,  and  not  even  expecting  to  be  better. 
I  study  to  be  solitiiry,  in  general ;  to  be  silent,  as  the  state 
that  suits  me  best ;  my  thoughts  then  are  infinitely  sad 
indeed,  but  capable  too  of  being  solenm,  mournfully  beautiful, 
useful ;  and  as  for  '  hap2)iness,'  I  have  of  that  employment 
more  or  less  befitting  the  years  I  have  arrived  at,  and  the 
long  journey  that  cannot  now  be  far  off. 

"  Your  letter  has  really  entertained  me  :  I  could  willingly 
accept  twelve  of  that  kind  in  the  year — twelve,  I  say,  or  even 
fifty-two,  if  they  could  be  content  with  an  answer  of  silent 
thanks  and  friendly  thoughts  and  remembrances  !  But  within 
the  last  three  or  four  years  my  right  hand  has  become  captious, 
taken  to  shaking  as  you  see,  and  all  writing  is  a  thing  I 
require  compulsion  and  close  necessity  to  drive  me  into ! 
Why  not  call  here  when  you  come  to  town  1  I  again  assure 
you  that  it  would  give  me  pleasure,  and  be  a  welcome  and 
wholesome  solace  to  me.— With  many  true  wishes  and  regards, 
I  am  always.  Dear  ¥.,  sincerely  vours, 

"T.  Caklyle." 

It  is  obvious  that  FitzGerald's  later  views  of  Carlyle, 
and  even  of  his  wi-itin^',  were  much  modihed  by  their 
friendship.  In  early  days  he  had  hated  witli  a  (ieep 
hatred  the  torrent  of  language,  the  nianncrisiiis,  the 
atfectatioiis,  the  "  canvas  Avaves  "'  of  Carlyle. 

Thus  he  wrote  to  Ik'nuud  iJarton  of  77"''  Fnnrh 
llevolutioii :  — 

"This  state  of  head  has  not  been  iiiij)roved  by  trying  to 
get  through  a  new  hook  much  in  fashion — Carlyle's  French 
Revolution, — written  in  a  (Jerman  style.  An  Euglisiiman 
writes  of  French  Kevolntiniis  in  a  (!<Tmaii  style.  I'eujile  say 
the  Book  is  ^ery  deep  :  but  it  apixais  to  me  tlmt  the  meaning 
seems  deep  tVum  lying  under  mystical  language.  Tlietc  is  no 
repose,   nnr  cijuable  movenienl   in   it  :  all  cut   up   int(j  short 


74  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

sentences  lialf  reflective,  half  narrative  ;  so  that  one  labours 
through  it  as  vessels  do  through  what  is  called  a  short  sea — 
small,  contrary  going  Avaves  caused  by  shallows,  and  straits, 
and  meeting  tides,  etc.  I  like  to  sail  before  the  wind  over 
the  surface  of  an  even-rolling  eloquence  like  that  of  Bacon  or 
the  Opium  Eater." 

But  as  soon  as  Fitzgerald  began  to  know  him  he  also 
began  to  realise  that  Carlyle  the  writer  was  the  same 
as  Carlylo  the  man,  and  that  what  might  have  been 
called  affectation  in  many  writers  was  merely  Carlyle's 
natural  mode  of  expressing  his  thoughts.  Still  he 
could  not  tolerate  the  turgid,  glowing,  rugged  rhetoric 
that  came  out  like  a  series  of  explosions,  though  he 
maintained  that  there  was  "  vital  good  "  in  all  Carlyle 
wrote. 

The  thought  of  the  philosopher  sitting  in  his  study, 
growling  and  fulminating  about  all  things  in  heaven 
and  earth,  "scolding  away  at  Darwin,  the  Turks, 
etc.,"  was  always  inexpressibly  ludicrous  to  FitzGerald; 
and  while  he  admired  Carlyle's  incredible  energy 
and  patience,  with  a  kind  of  regretful  wonder,  seeing 
qualities  displayed  that  were  so  unlike  his  own,  he  yet 
M'as  offended  by  the  rough  indifference  to  the  feelings 
of  others — "a  little  Scotch  indelicacy" — into  which 
Carlyle  was  so  often  betrayed. 

When  in  1875,  on  the  occasion  of  Carlyle's  eightieth 
birthday,  his  admirers  presented  him  with  a  com- 
memorative gold  medal,  bearing  Carlyle's  effigy  and  an 
inscription,  FitzGerald  was  considerably  disconcerted. 
His  dislike  of  anything  resembling  pose,  of  public 
recognition,  came  out  very  strongly  ;  he  wrote : — 

"  And  yet  I  think  he  might  have  declined  the  Honours  of 
a  Life  of  '  Heroism.'  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have  played 
a  Brave  ISLin's  Part  if  called  on  ;  but,  meanwhile,  he  has  only 
sat  pretty  comfortably  at  Chelsea,  scolding  all  the  world  for 


IV.]  FRIENDS  75 

not  being  Heroic,  and  not  always  very  precise  in  telling  tliem 
how.  He  has,  however,  been  so  f;xr  heroic,  as  to  be  always 
independent  whether  of  Wealth,  Rank,  and  Coteries  of  all 
sorts  :  nay,  apt  to  fly  in  the  face  of  some  who  courted  him. 
I  suppose  he  is  changed,  or  subdued,  at  eighty  :  but  up  to 
the  last  ten  years  he  seemed  to  me  just  the  same  as  when  I 
first  knew  him  five-and- thirty  years  ago.  What  a  Fortune  he 
might  have  made  by  showing  himself  about  as  a  Lecturer,  as 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  did  ;  I  don't  mean  they  did  it  for 
Vanity  :  but  to  make  money :  and  that  to  spend  generously. 
Carlyle  did  indeed  lecture  near  forty  years  ago  before  he  was 
a  Lion  to  be  shown,  and  Mhen  he  h:(d  but  few  Readers.  .  .  . 
He  looked  very  handsome  then,  with  his  black  hair,  fine 
Eyes,  and  a  sort  of  Crucified  Expression." 

Carlyle  himself  kept  a  very  warm  corner  in  his 
heart  for  FitzGerald.  So  much  so  indeed  that  that 
sharp  censor  of  all  that  was  dilettante  or  inactive  was 
able  actually  to  suppress  all  or  nearly  all  contemptuous 
comment  on  his  friend. 

Carlyle  wrote  of  FitzGerald  to  Norton  : — 

"  It  is  possible  FitzGerald  may  have  written  to  you  ;  but 
whether  or  not  I  will  send  you  his  letter  to  myself,  as  a 
slight  emblem  and  memorial  of  the  peaceable,  affectionate, 
and  ultra  modest  man,  and  his  innocent  far  niente  life — and 
the  connexion  (were  there  nothing  more)  of  Omar,  the 
Mahometan  Blackguard,  and  Oliver  Cromwell,  the  English 
Puritan  !— discharging  you  completely,  at  the  same  time,  from 
ever  returning  me  this  letter,  or  taking  any  notice  of  it,  (xcept 
a  small  silent  one." 

When  the  Iteminiscenres  came  out  after  Curlylc's 
death,  Fitz(}erald  felt  considerable  indignation  at 
the  brutality  with  which  living  persons,  and  near 
relations  of  the  living,  were  criticised.  This  indig- 
nation was,  however,  more  directed  against  the  editor 
than  against  the  writer  ;  and  his  admiration  of  Carlyle's 
own  strength  and  simplicity  survived  the  shock. 


76  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

When  the  Biography  appeared,  FitzGerald's  feelings 
underwent  an  entire  revulsion.  His  sense  of  indigna- 
tion at  the  harshness  <lisplayed  in  the  Reminiscences 
was  swallowed  up  in  admiration  and  love.  He  saw 
the  nobleness  of  the  man,  his  true  tenderness  of  heart, 
the  fiery  trials  through  which  he  had  passed,  the  faults 
of  temperament  with  which  he  had  so  gallantly 
struggled.    The  book  moved  him  deeply  ;  he  MTOte  : — 

"  Yes,  you  must  read  Froude's  Carlyle  above  all  things,  and 
tell  me  if  you  do  not  feel  as  I  do  about  it.  .  .  . 

*'  But  how  is  it  that  I  did  not  know  that  Carlyle  was  so 
good,  grand,  and  even  loveable,  till  I  read  the  Letters  which 
Froude  now  edits  ?  I  regret  that  I  did  not  know  what  the 
Book  tells  lis  while  Carlyle  was  still  alive  ;  that  I  might  have 
loved  him  as  well  as  admired  him.  But  Carlyle  never  spoke 
of  himself  in  that  way  :  I  never  heard  him  advert  to  his 
Works  and  his  Fame,  except  one  day  he  happened  to  mention 
*  About  the  time  when  Men  began  to  talk  of  me.' "' 

It  is  an  interesting  friendship  because  so  unequal. 
It  shows  that  respect,  and  aftection,  and  sincerity  are 
the  true  levellers  of  all  differences.  Two  men  could 
hardly  have  been  selected  whose  temperaments  were 
not  only  so  dissimilar,  but  to  each  of  whom  the  faults 
of  the  other's  intellect  and  character  would  have  been 
naturally  so  repugnant.  The  gentle-hearted  sceptic 
and  the  puritan  prophet.  Yet  both  had  an  eye  for 
humanity  and  simplicity ;  and  upon  these  qualities 
their  mutual  regard  was  based. 

Thackeray  was  at  Trinity  with  FitzGerald,  but  his 
junior  by  two  years.  At  Cambridge  they  were  very 
close  comrades.  They  were  often  in  each  other's 
rooms,  and  amused  themselves  with  music  and  draw- 
ing ;  they  found  infinite  relish  in  criticising  and 
caricaturing  their  friends  and  acquaintances,  in  imitat- 
ing  the   peculiurities  of  singers,  and  maintaining  the 


IV.]  FRIENDS  77 

brisk  freemasonry  of  gifted  aiul  high-spirited  youth. 
Thackeray  was  "  Will "  to  FitzGerald,  FitzGerald  by 
turns  Ned,  Neddibus,  Neddikius,  Yedward,  old  Fitz, 
or  "dear  vieitx"  to  Thackeray.  Thackeray  was  idle  at 
Cambridge.  "  I  find  reading  a  hard,  hard  matter,"  he 
wrote  to  his  mother ;  and  he  encouraged  FitzGerald  to 
find  it  hard  too.  But  their  comradeship  did  not  last 
very  long,  though  they  met  in  town  not  infrequently, 
and  even  visited  Paris  together.  There  was  a  radical 
difference  between  the  two  men.  Thackeray  had  a 
full-blooded  love  of  life  and  living,  and  an  inveterate 
sociability  of  disposition.  FitzGerald  had  far  less 
vitality  and  animal  spirits,  and  found  the  kind  of  life 
in  which  Thackeray  revelled  a  decided  strain.  Both 
had  moods  of  melancholy ;  but  in  Thackeray  it  was 
rather  the  reaction  from  the  excitement  of  eager 
living,  while  in  FitzGerald  it  was  a  melancholy  of 
temperament  which  lay  deeper  in  his  nature.  We  see 
FitzGerald,  as  the  years  went  on,  turning  moiu  and 
more  to  solitude  and  seclusion,  country  rambles  alone 
or  with  a  single  companion,  loving  the  quiet  sights 
and  sounds  of  nature,  and  instinctively  avoiding  the 
strain  of  society  and  talk.  Thackeray,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  made  for  cities  and  the  stir  of  yixid  and 
vigorous  life.     FitzGerald  wrote  of  him  in  1845  : — 

"  III  the  mean  while  old  Thackeray  laughs  at  all  this  ;  and 
goes  on  iu  his  own  way  ;  writing  hard  for  half-a-dozen 
Ileviews  and  Newspapers  all  the  morning  ;  dining,  drinking, 
and  talking  of  a  night  ;  managing  to  preserve  a  fresh  colour 
and  perpetual  How  of  spirits  under  a  wear-and-tear  of  think- 
ing and  feeding  that  would  have  knocked  up  any  other  man 
I  know  two  years  ago,  at  least.  .  .  ." 

As  the  years  W(>nt  on,  Tliackeray's  mundane  suc- 
cesses made  FitzGerald  more  and  more  shy  of  him, 
and  possibly  even  unconsciously  u  little  jealous.     Fitz- 


78  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Gerald  appears  to  "have  been  almost  appalled  at 
Thackeray's  zest  and  power  of  enjoyment;  he  was 
bewildered  at  the  knowledge  of  the  world  and  human 
weaknesses  which  Thackeray  showed.  And,  moreover, 
though  Thackeray  had  a  vein  of  deep  and  wholesome 
tenderness  in  his  nature,  there  was  also  a  certain 
cynicism,  which  to  FitzGerald  was  unpalatable. 
Thackeray's  heroes  and  heroines  enjoy  the  kingdoms 
of  the  Avorld  and  the  glory  of  them;  and  the  quiet, 
domestic  tenderness  of  life,  the  simple  pleasures  of  the 
family  and  the  home,  are  rather  as  gentle  interludes 
in  the  fuller  and  more  eager  music  of  the  glittering 
world.  It  is  all  there,  the  softer  and  serener  atmo- 
sphere; but  with  Thackeray  home-life  is  rather  the 
quiet  interval,  the  haven  into  which,  after  the  stress 
of  the  voyage,  the  rattle  of  the  ropes,  the  leaping  of 
the  high  seas,  men  return  in  weariness  or  disappoint- 
ment. Thackeray's  heroes  are  like  Tennyson's  Ulysses 
— the  world  is  set  in  their  hearts,  and  they  drink 
delight  of  battle  with  their  peers. 

All  this  was  foreign  to  FitzGerald ;  the  current  of 
life  was  for  him  the  quiet,  monotonous  movement  of 
leisure  and  simple  joys.  The  life  of  cities  he  regarded 
rather  as  a  tonic,  which  should  brace  his  spirit ;  and 
should  send  him  back  with  a  keener  zest  to  his  garden 
and  his  study,  and  the  talk  of  simple  persons  in  the 
country  stillness. 

Life  in  London  seemed  to  FitzGerald  to  have  some- 
how taken  off  the  bloom  from  the  generous  and  high- 
spirited  boy  he  had  known.  But  what  the  two  felt,  imo 
mh  pedore,  for  each  other,  comes  out  in  a  most  touching 
letter  written  by  Thackeray  to  FitzGerald  on  the  eve 
of  his  departure  for  a  lecturing  tour  in  America  in 
1852,  in  which  Thackeray  says  that  if  anything  Averc 
to  happen  to  him,   "I  should  like  my  daughters   to 


IV.]  FRIENDS  79 

remember  that  you  arc  the  best  and  oldest  friend  their 
Father  ever  had,  and  that  you  would  act  as  such :  as 
my  literary  executor  and  so  forth."     He  continues : — 

"  Does  not  this  sound  gloomily  1  Well  :  wlio  knows  what 
Fate  is  in  store  :  and  I  feel  not  at  all  downcast,  but  very  grave 
and  solemn  just  at  the  brink  of  a  great  voyage  ,  .  .  the  great 
comfort  I  have  in  thinking  about  my  dear  old  boy  is  that 
recollection  of  our  youth  when  we  loved  each  other  as  I  now 
do  while  I  write  Farewell." 

Yet  they  gradually  drifted  apart.  Thackeray  died 
on  24:th  December  1863,  a  worn-out  man.  "I  have 
taken  too  many  crops  out  of  my  brain,"  he  had  said, 
not  long  before.  A  fortnight  later  FitzGerald  Avrote  to 
Samuel  Laurence  the  painter  : — 

"  Frederic  Tennyson  sent  nie  a  Photograph  of  "W.  M.  T., 
old,  white,  massive,  and  melancholy,  sitting  in  his  Library. 

"  I  am  surprized  almost  to  find  how  much  I  am  thinking  of 
him  :  so  little  as  I  had  seen  him  for  the  last  ten  years  ;  not  once 
for  the  last  five.  I  had  been  told — by  you,  for  one — that  he 
was  spoiled.  I  am  glad,  therefore,  that  I  have  scarce  seen  him 
since  he  was  'old  Thackeray.'  I  keep  reading  his  Xearomes 
of  nights,  and,  as  it  Avere,  hear  him  saying  so  much  in  it ;  and 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  he  might  be  coming  up  my  Stairs,  and 
about  to  come  (singing)  into  my  Eoom,  as  in  old  Charlotte 
Street,  etc.,  thirty  years  ago." 

The  thought  of  his  lost  friend,  in  tender  retrospect, 
was  very  often  with  him  :  the  very  echo  of  his  footstep 
and  the  sound  of  his  voice  dwelt  with  him. 

And  he  had,  too,  moods  in  which  he  admire<l 
Thackeray's  Avork,  though  he  did  not  feel  it  really 
congenial  to  him.  "Fielding's  seem  to  me  coarse 
work  in  com})arison,"  he  wrote. 

It  is  clear  that  Thackeray's  own  regard  for  FilzGerald 
never  wavered.  The  ditierence  between  them  was 
temperamental  :  and  it  was  inevitable  that  F'itzGerald 


80  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

should  become  conscious  of  the  dissimilarity,  though 
there  was  no  reason  why  Thackeray  should.  It  may 
be  remembered  that,  in  the  later  days  of  his  writing, 
Thackeray  professed  himself  unable  to  write  in  his 
own  study  ;  he  found  it  necessary  to  go  to  the  Club  or 
even  to  an  hotel  to  stimulate  his  brain  by  the  sight  and 
scent,  so  to  speak,  of  life.  Apart  from  the  movement 
and  stir  of  human  beings,  he  was  overmastered  by 
depression  and  dreariness.  Such  a  taste  would  not'be 
only  unintelligible  but  positively  repellent  to  Fitz- 
Gerald.  And  it  was  this  deep-seated  divergence  of 
temperament  that  made  companionship  impossible ; 
though  there  is  no  failure  of  love  or  even  loyalty  to 
record. 

James  Spedding  was  probably  the  most  revered  and 
admired,  and  perhaps  the  most  deeply,  if  not  the  most 
warmly  loved  of  all  FitzGerald's  friends.  From  the 
earliest  Spedding  had  a  great  reputation  for  mifis 
fapientia.  "He  was  the  Pope  among  us  young  men," 
said  Tennyson,  "the  wisest  man  I  knew."  "With  more 
le^'ity  FitzGerald  and  Thackeray  used  to  make  merry 
over  Spedding's  high,  dome-shaped  forehead,  prema- 
turely bald. 

"That  portrait  of  Spedding,  for  instance,  wliich  Laurence 
has  given  me  :  not  swords,  nor  cannon,  nor  all  the  Bulls  of 
Bashan  butting  at  it,  could,  I  feel  sure,  discompose  that  vener- 
able forehead.  No  wonder  that  no  hair  can  grow  at  such  an 
altitude  :  no  wonder  his  view  of  Bacon's  virtue  is  so  rarefied 
that  the  common  consciences  of  men  cannot  endure  it. 
Thackeray  and  I  occasionally  amuse  ourselves  with  the  idea 
of  Spedding's  forehead  :  we  find  it  somehow  or  other  in  all 
things,  just  peering  out  of  all  things  :  you  see  it  in  a  mile- 
stone, Thackeray  says.  He  also  draws  the  forehead  rising 
with  a  sober  light  over  Mont  Blanc,  and  reflected  in  the  lake 
of  Geneva.     "We  have  '^reat  laughing  over  this.     The  fore- 


IV.]  FRIENDS  81 

head  is  at  present  in  Pembrokeshire,  I  believe  :  or  Glamor- 
ganshire :  or  Monmouthshire  :  it  is  hard  to  say  which.  It 
has  gone  to  spend  itd  Christmas  there." 

Spedding  was  the  sou  of  a  Cumberland  squire.  After 
leaving  Cambridge  he  went  to  the  bar  and  devoted  him- 
self eventually  to  the  editing  of  Bacon's  works ;  a  task 
which  lasted  over  thirty  years.  After  holding  one  or 
two  temporary  appointments,  Spedding  was  offered, 
in  1847,  the  Permanent  Under-Secretaryship  for  the 
Colonies,  on  the  retirement  of  Sir  James  Stephen,  who 
wrote  of  Spedding  that  he  was  "gentle,  luminous,  and 
in  his  own  quiet  way  energetic."  He  would  not,  how- 
ever, desert  Bacon.  Spedding  was  a  man  of  wonder- 
fully calm,  well-balanced,  and  thoughtful  temperament, 
and  was  the  trusted  friend  and  adviser  of  many 
families.  "He  always  seemed  to  regard  himself,"  said 
Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  "  from  the  outside,  as  a  good- 
natured  man  might  regard  a  friend  whose  foibles 
amuse  him,  but  who  is  at  bottom  not  a  bad  fellow." 
He  was  a^'ersc  to  recognition ;  he  refused  an  honorary 
degree,  and,  on  Charles  Kingsley's  resignation,  the 
Professorship  of  Modern  History  at  Cambridge,  with 
humorous  and  lucid  explanations  of  his  own  inadequacy. 
FitzGerald's  love  and  admiration  for  Spedding  never 
varied ;  though  it  is  not  luicharacteristic  that  he 
could  write  of  him,  after  fifty  years  of  friendship,  in 
the  terms  of  the  following  letter,  and  yet  make  no 
attempt  to  sec  him  : — 

"  JNIy  dear  old  Spedding,  though  I  have  not  seen  him  these 
twenty  years  and  more — and  pro])a])ly  should  never  see  him 
again — but  he  lives — his  old  Self — in  my  heart  of  hearts  ; 
and  all  I  hear  of  him  does  but  embellish  the  recollection  of 
him — if  it  could  be  embellished — for  he  is  but  the  same  that 
he  was  from  a  Boy — idl  that  is  best  in  Heart  and  Head — a 
man  that  would  be  incredible  had  one  not  known  him.'' 

I' 


82  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

A  few  days  after  this  letter  was  written,  Speddiiig 
was  run  over  by  a  cab  and  carried  to  St.  George's 
Hospital,  where,  on  the  9th  of  March  1881,  he  died. 

On  the  1 3th  of  March  FitzGerald  wrote  : — 

"  It  seems  almost  wrong  or  unreasonable  of  me  to  be  talking 
thus  of  myself  and  my  little  Doings,  when  not  only  Carlyle 
has  departed  from  us,  but  one,  not  so  illustrious  in  Genius, 
but  certainly  not  less  wise,  my  dear  old  Friend  of  sixty  years, 
James  Spedding  :  whose  name  you  will  know  as  connected 
with  Lord  Bacon.  To  re-edit  his  Works,  which  did  not  want 
any  such  re-edition,  and  to  vindicate  his  Character,  which 
could  not  be  cleared,  did  this  Spedding  sacrifice  forty  years 
which  he  might  well  have  given  to  accomplish  much  greater 
things  ;  Shakespeare,  for  one.  But  Spedding  had  no  sort  of 
ambition,  and  liked  to  be  kept  at  one  long  work  which  he 
knew  would  not  glorify  himself.  He  was  the  wisest  man  I 
have  known  :  not  the  less  so  for  plenty  of  the  Boy  in  him  ;  a 
great  sense  of  Humour,  a  Socrates  in  Life  and  in  Death, 
^vhich  he  foced  with  all  Serenity  so  long  as  Consciousness 
lasted." 

And  again,  writing  of  him  a  few  days  later,  he 
said  : — 

"  Laurence  had  written  me  some  account  of  his  Visit  to  St. 
Gleorge's  :  all  Patience  :  only  somewhat  wishful  to  be  at 
home  :  somewhat  weary  with  lying  without  Book,  or  even 
Watch,  for  company.  What  a  Man  !  as  in  Life  so  in  Death, 
which,  as  Montaigne  says,  proves  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Vessel.  .  .  . 

"  He  did  not  want  to  see  me  ;  he  wanted  nothing,  I  think  : 
but  I  Avas  always  thinking  of  him,  and  should  have  done  till 
my  own  Life's  end,  I  know.' 

Thus,  in  the  region  of  friendship,  as  in  all  other 
sides  of  life,  we  see  how  early  the  glow  of  youth,  of 
companionship,  of  joy  deserted  FitzGerald,  and  left 
him  living  in  a  tender,  retrospective  dream.  Many 
men  are  content  to  let  their  youthful  friendships  fade 


IV.]  FRIENDS  83 

into  oblivion,  to  allow  propinquity  and  circumstance 
to  determine  their  choice  of  associates,  or  to  con- 
centrate their  interests  upon  a  closer  family  circle. 
But  FitzGerald  was  loyal  and  faithful  to  the  old  ties ; 
and  his  fidelity  prevailed  even  over  the  clear-sighted 
microscopic  gaze  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  char- 
acter and  life,  and  to  which  so  much  of  his  own 
unhappiness  was  due. 


CHAPTER    V 

WRITINGS —  OMA  R   KHA  YYAM 

It  will  be  convenient  here  briefly  to  summarise  the 
writings  of  FitzGerald,  with  the  dates  of  their  issue. 

First  comes  the  Selection  from  the  Poems  and  Letters 
of  Bernard  Barton,  with  a  Memoir  by  FitzGerald, 
published  in  1849  by  Hall,  Virtue  and  Co. 

Next  comes  the  Bnphranor,  which  was  published  by 
Pickering  in  1851.  Folonivs,  a  collection  of  aphorisms, 
which  has  been  already  described,  was  published  by 
Pickering  in  1852.  In  1853  came  the  Six  Dramas  of 
Calderon,  published  by  Pickering.  The  second  edition 
of  Euphranar,  much  altered,  appeared  in  1855,  published 
by  J.  "W.  Parker.  In  1856  appeared  Saldindn  and  Ahsdl, 
published  by  Parker,  which  was  rei)rinted  at  Ipswich 
in  1871,  though  FitzGerald  seems  to  have  ignored 
the  issue.  In  1859  came  the  first  edition  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  published  by  Quaritch.  In  1862  this  was 
privately  reprinted  in  India,  with  a  few  additional 
quatrains,  and  some  illustrative  matter.  In  1865  two 
dramas  from  Calderon — The  Mighty  Magician  and  Swh 
St}(ff  as  Dreams  are  made  of,  printed  by  Childs,  and 
intended  for  private  distribution.  In  the  same  year 
1865,  the  translation  of  the  Agamemnon  M'as  privately 
printed.  In  1868  appeared  the  second  edition  of  the 
Omar,  published  by  Quaritch.  In  1871,  as  I  have  said, 
a  few  copies  of  a  revised  edition  of  SahJmdn  and  Ahsdl 
were  printed  at  Ipswich.     In  1872  the  third  edition 


CHAP,  v.]      WmTmOS—OMAIi  KHAYYAM  85 

of  Omar  was  published  by  Quaritch.  In  1876  the 
Agamemnon  was  published  by  Quaritch,  who  in  1879 
published  the  fourth  edition  of  the  Omar  together  with 
the  Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl.  In  the  same  year  the  first 
part  of  the  Readings  in  Crabbe  was  privately  printed 
by  Billing.  In  1880  the  first  part  of  the  Oedipus,  and 
in  1881  the  second  part,  were  printed  by  Billing. 
In  1882  a  revised  Euphranvr  was  printed  by  the  same 
firm.  In  1882  the  Readings  in  Crabbe  was  published  by 
Quaritch,  and  in  1883  the  second  part  of  the  Readings 
in  Crabbe  was  published  by  Quaritch. 

The  above  record  clearly  illustrates  the  desire  in 
FitzGerald's  mind  to  pi-int  his  works,  together  with  his 
shrinking  from  publication.  None  of  his  publications, 
except  the  Six  Dramas  of  Calderon,  bore  his  name,  and 
this  only  in  order  to  avoid  confusion  with  another 
almost  contemporary  translation.  He  preferred  to 
test  the  merits  of  a  book  by  distributing  a  fe'w  copies 
among  his  friends ;  and  the  record  shows  too,  in  the 
constant  revision  and  alteration  that  his  ^\ork  re- 
ceived, the  extreme  difficulty  which  he  found  in  satis- 
fying his  instinct  for  perfection.  The  result  is  that 
the  bibliography  of  his  writings  i.s  a  matter  of  great 
complexity. 

It  is  natural  to  regret  the  fact  that  FitzGerald  did  not 
more  often  attempt  to  speak  to  the  world  •with  his  own 
direct,  authentic  utterance.  But  a  temperament  both 
melancholy  and  fastidious  is  never  in  want  of  reasons 
for  holding  its  peace.  Very  early  in  life  his  impulse 
towards  creati\"c  and  original  work  died  away.  Thus 
he  wrote  to  Bernard  Baiton  in  1842  : — 

"  As  10  my  ddin^'  anything  else  iu  that  way,  I  know  that  I 
could  write  volume  after  volume  as  well  as  others  of  the  mob 
(.if  gentlemen  who  Avrite  with  ease  :  but  I  think  unless  a  man 
can  do  better,  he  had   best  not   do  at  all  ;    I   have  nut  llio 


86  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

strong  inward  call,  nor  cruel-sweet  pangs  of  parturition,  that 
prove  the  birth  of  anything  bigger  than  a  mouse." 

And  again  to  the  same  : — 

"  I  am  a  man  of  taste,  of  whom  there  are  hundreds  born 
every  year :  only  that  less  easy  circumstances  than  mine  at 
present  are  compel  them  to  one  calling  :  that  calling  perhaps 
a  mechanical  one,  which  overlies  all  their  other,  and  naturally 
perhaps  more  energetic  impulses.  As  to  an  occasional  copy 
of  verses,  there  are  few  men  who  have  leisure  to  read,  and 
are  possessed  of  any  music  in  their  souls,  who  are  not  capable 
of  versifying  on  some  ten  or  twelve  occasions  during  their 
natural  lives  :  at  a  proper  conjunction  of  the  stars.  There  is 
no  harm  in  taking  advantage  of  such  occasions." 

The  truth  is  that  FitzG-erald's  mind  was  deficient  in 
the  imaginative  quality.  He  had  a  strong  spectatorial 
interest  in  life,  a  kind  of  dark  yet  tender  philosophy, 
■which  gave  him  his  one  great  opportunity  :  but  even 
there  he  had,  like  Teucer,  to  shoot  his  arrows  behind 
the  shield  of  Ajax.  He  had,  of  course,  an  extra- 
ordinary delicacy  of  perception  ;  but  on  the  critical  side. 

His  strength  lay  in  his  power  of  expressing,  with  a 
sort  of  careful  artlessness,  elusive  thoughts,  rather 
than  in  strength  or  subtlety  of  invention.  His  timid, 
fastidious  imagination  shrank  from  the  strain  of  con- 
structing, originating,  creating.  The  Euphranor,  which 
will  be  considered  later  in  detail,  is  the  only  experiment 
that  he  made  in  the  direction  of  fiction,  and  there  is  no 
dramatic  grasp  in  it,  no  firm  delineation  of  character ; 
one  feels  that  he  is  moving  puppets  to  and  fro,  and 
the  voice  of  the  showman  is  speaking  all  the  time. 
He  had,  too,  a  certain  feminine  irritability,  a  peevish 
fastidiousness  which  would  have  dogged  his  steps  if  he 
had  embarked  upon  a  larger  subject ;  he  would  never 
have  been  satisfied  with  his  work ;  he  would  have 
fretted  over  it,  and  abandoned  it  in  despair. 


v.]  WEITINGS— 07»/^i?  KIFAYYAM  87 

Ho  was  deficient,  too,  in  the  patience  requisite  for 
carrying  work  through.  "To  correct  is  i/ie  Bore,"  he 
wrote  to  Cowell.  Yet  the  bulky  volumes  of  extracts 
and  selections  and  abridgements,  which  remain  in  Mr. 
Aldis  Wright's  possession,  such  as  the  collection 
Avhimsically  named  Half-Hours  vnfh  f/ie  Worst  Authors, 
testify  to  a  certain  laboriousness,  an  acquisitiveness,  a 
species  of  diligence  which  cannot  be  gainsaid.  One 
may  wonder,  too,  that  so  desultory  a  student  contrived 
to  translate  so  much  as  FitzGerald  did ;  l)ut  his  mind 
was  in  a  sense  active ;  he  could  not  be  unoccupied,  and 
yet  had  not  the  vigour  necessary  for  original  work. 
To  such  a  man  it  is  a  comfort  to  have  work  which 
demands  no  expenditure  of  vital  force,  which  may  be 
taken  up  and  laid  down  at  will,  and  where  the  original 
supplies  the  literary  impulse. 

But  what  is  perhaps  at  the  root  of  the  matter  is  that 
FitzGerald  always  subordinated  Art  to  Life.  He  had  little 
of  the  fierce,  imperative,  creative  impulse.  Art  seemed 
to  him  not  a  thing  apart,  but  an  accessory  of  life ;  and 
therefore  a  single  touch  of  nature  was  to  FitzGerald  a 
higher  thing  than  the  highest  achievement  of  art. 

Thus  he  had  a  great  tenderness  for  worthless  little 
books,  if  they  only  revealed  some  gentle  and  delicate 
trait  of  character,  some  small  piece  of  wistful  in- 
dividuality. A  great  conception,  a  broad  and  vigorous 
motive,  often  bewildered  and  stupefied  hini.  His  idea 
of  the  paradise  of  art  was  as  of  a  place  where  you 
could  wander  quietly  about  picking  a  flower  here 
and  thei'o,  catching  a  little  eflect,  watching  a  pretty 
grouping  of  trees  and  water,  the  sunlight  on  a  grassy 
])ank  or  a  gable-end.  He  lived  and  thought  in  a  series 
of  glimpses  and  vistas,  but  the  plan  of  the  place,  its 
avenues  and  terraces,  was  unregarded  by  him.  And 
thus  there  was   a  want  of  centrality,  of  combination, 


88  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

of  breadth,  about  his  mind.  Art  was  to  him  not  an 
impassioned  quest,  but  a  leisurely  wandering  in  search 
of  charm,  of  colour,  of  subtle  impressions.  Probably 
FitzGerald  never  truly  estimated  his  own  temperament. 
He  was  perhaps  misled  by  his  gentle  ecstasies  into 
thinking  that  an  effort  was  all  that  was  needed ;  and 
perhaps,  too,  he  liked  to  fancy  that  what  -was  in  reality 
a  deep-seated  languor  of  will,  was  a  philosophical 
unworldliness,  an  indifference  to  rewards  and  crowns. 
He  nourished  no  illusions  about  his  past ;  but  he  had 
hopes  of  future  performance,  though  no  care  for  fame ; 
and  it  was  only  as  day  after  day  sank  like  ripples  into 
the  pool  behind  him,  that  he  became  aware  that  the 
necessary  effort  would  probably  not  be  made. 

No  doubt  too,  to  a  man  of  FitzGerald's  disposition, 
the  absolute  indifference  shown  by  the  world  at  large 
to  his  writings  deprived  him  of  the  last  touch  of 
stimulus.  What  was  still  more  disheartening,  even  his 
friends  took  comparatively  little  interest  in  his  doings. 
Dean  Merivale  said  in  1877  that  he  had  "  never  thought 
FitzGerald  was  guilty  of  verse." 

Perhaps  a  great  and  incontestable  success  early  in 
life  might  have  made  a  difference  to  him ;  but  even  so 
he  would  have  been  easily  cast  down  by  criticism  and 
depreciation.  He  had  not  the  physical  vigour  to  enjoy 
success,  the  full-blooded  energy  that  makes  a  man 
desire  to  be  felt,  to  create  a  stir,  to  wield  an  influence, 
to  be  a  personage.  He  would  probably  have  found 
that  his  success  gave  him  only  a  temporary  elation, 
and  that  the  draught  had  something  heady  and 
poisonous  about  it.  He  would  have  taken  no 
pleasure  in  unintelligent  appreciation,  in  the  numeri- 
cal increase  of  circulation  which  shows  at  all  events 
that  a  man's  work  is  accepted  by  the  deferential 
readers  who  follow  authority  humbly. 


v.]  WRITINGS— 0.1/^ >R  KHAYYAM  89 

It  is  then  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  with  Fitz- 
Gerald's  earnest  avoidance  of  publicity,  his  shrinking 
from  criticism,  such  neglect  should  have  been  the 
result.  But  it  served  only  to  increase  his  natural 
diffidence  and  to  make  him  despair  of  ever  realising 
the  ambitious  dreams  which  he  had  once  nourished  in 
the  careless  days  of  youth,  before  he  had  felt  the  cold 
shadow  of  the  world,  before  he  had  learned  that  he 
Avas  to  die. 

Of  FitzGerald's  writings,  I  propose  to  deal  first 
with  his  translations  from  the  Oriental  poets,  whom 
he  began  to  read  with  Cowell,  probably  in  1853.  Jami's 
Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl  appeared  first,  being  published  in 
1856.  In  the  same  year  he  began  to  read  Attar's  Bird 
Parliament,  and  was  working  in  his  leisurely  way  at 
Omar  Khayyam,  reading,  enjoying  and  adapting. 

Jami's  Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl  is  an  allegory  over  which 
FitzGerald  spent  much  time  and  care ;  it  is  idle  to 
speculate  why,  Avhen  the  work  is  compared  with  Omar, 
the  achievement  appears  to  be  so  slight.  Yet  so  it  is. 
The  truth  is,  I  conceive,  that  FitzGerald  put  so  little 
of  himself  into  the  poem,  but  was  content  to  ride,  as 
it  were,  in  Jami's  chariot. 

The  poem  is  prefaced  by  an  interesting,  though  some- 
what vague,  letter  to  Cowell,  discussing  the  difficulties 
of  dealing  with  so  diftuse  a  poet  as  Jami,  and  explain- 
ing that  in  his  version  he  has  sacrificed  much  of  the 
Oriental  imagery. 

But  there  is  a  touching  autobiographical  passage  in 
the  letter  which  may  ])c  quoted.     He  writes  : — 

"  111  Ktudyiiijf  the  Original,  you  know,  one  gets  cuntenteJly 
tarried  over  barren  (Jrouiid  in  a  new  Land  of  Languiige — 
excited  by  chasing  any  new  Game  that  will  but  show  Sport  ; 
the  must  worthless    to   win   asking   perhaps  all   the   ^harjier 


90  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Energy  to  pursue,  and  so  far  giving  all  the  more  Satisfaction 
when  run  down.  Especially,  cheered  on  as  I  was  by  such 
a  Huntsman  as  poor  Dog  of  a  Persian  Scholar  never  hunted 
with  before  ;  and  moreover — but  that  was  rather  in  the 
Spanish  Sierras — by  the  Presence  of  a  Lady  in  the  Field, 
silently  brightening  about  us  like  Aurora's  Self,  or  chiming 
in  with  musical  Encouragement  that  all  we  started  and  ran 
down  must  be  Royal  Game. 

"  Oh,  happy  days  !  When  shall  we  Three  meet  again — 
when  dip  in  that  returning  Tide  of  Time  and  Circumstance  ! 
In  those  Meadows  far  from  the  World,  it  seemed,  as  Salamdn's 
Island — before  an  iron  Railway  broke  the  Heart  of  the  Happy 
Valley  whose  Gossip  was  the  Mill-wheel,  and  Visitors  the 
Summer  Airs  that  momentarily  ruffled  the  Sleepy  Stream  that 
turned  it  as  they  chased  one  another  over  to  lose  themselves  in 
Avhispers  in  the  Copse  beyond.  Or  returning — I  suppose  you 
remember  whose  Lines  they  are — 

■'  '  When  Winter  Skies  were  tinged  with  Crimson  still 
Where  Thornbush  nestles  on  the  quiet  hill, 
And  the  live  Amber  round  the  setting  Sun, 
Lighting  the  Labourer  home  whose  Work  is  done, 
Burn'd  like  a  Golden  Angel-ground  above 
The  solitary  Home  of  Peace  and  Love.'  ^ 

"At  such  an  hour  drawing  home  together  for  a  fireside 
Night  of  it  with  xEschylus  or  Calderon  in  the  Cottage, 
whose  walls,  modest  almost  as  those  of  the  Poor  who 
clustered — and  witli  good  reason — round,  make  to  my  Eyes 
the  Towered  Crown  of  Oxford  hany;ing  in  the  Horizon,  aud 
with  all  Honour  won,  but  a  dingy  Vapour  in  Comimrison. 
And  now,  should  they  beckon  from  the  terrible  Ganges,  and 
this  little  Book,  begun  as  a  happy  Record  of  past,  and  pledge 
perhaps  of  future.  Fellowship  in  Study,  darken  already  with 
the  shadow  of  everlasting  Farewell  !  " 

There  is  a  short  note  on  the  original  metre  of  the 
poem  ;  and  a  little  biographical  sketch  of  Jami,  slight 

1  Written  by  Mrs.  Cowell,  and  altered  (for  tlie  better)  by 
FitzGerald.  The  original  is  given  in  Cowell 's  Life,  p.  307. 
Thornbush  is  the  name  of  a  farm  above  Bramford. 


v.]  WRITINGS— 0. IMA'  KHAYYAm  91 

enough,  as  must  needs  be  the  case  with  the  legend  of 
one  of  whom  comparatively  little  is  known,  but  over 
which  FitzGerald  lingers  tenderly,  strewing  roses  by 
the  way. 

Jiimi  was  born  early  in  the  fifteenth  century  of  the 
Christian  era ;  he  was  a  precocious  and  learned  child  ;  he 
went  to  great  school  at  Samarcand,  but  was  recalled 
to  Herat  by  a  dream,  and  there  devoted  himself  to  the 
religious  life,  joining  the  mystical  Siifi  sect,  withdraw- 
ing into  profound  solitude,  and  becoming  a  silent, 
visionary  man,  absorbed  in  contemplation.  But  he 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  poetry.  "  A  thousand 
times,"  he  says,  "I  have  repented  of  such  Employ- 
ment ;  but  I  could  no  more  shirk  it  tlian  one  can 
shirk  what  the  Pen  of  Fate  has  written  on  his 
Forehead."  "As  Poet  I  have  resoimded  through  the 
world  ;  Heaven  filled  itself  with  my  Song.  .  .  .  The 
Kings  of  India  and  liiim  greet  me  by  Letter;  the 
Lords  of  Irak  and  Tabriz  load  me  with  gifts."  After 
a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  with  some  sharp  adventures 
intermingled,  he  returned  to  Herat;  died  at  a  great 
age,  and  was  buried  with  much  pomp  and  circum- 
stance. He  wrote  innumerable  volumes  of  grammar, 
poetry,  and  theology.  Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl  was  the 
last  product  of  his  old  age,  the  mature  vintage  of  his 
powers. 

It  is  an  allegory  in  which,  as  FitzGerald  says,  the 
poet  "symbolised  an  esoteric  doctrine  which  he  dared 
not — and  pro1)ably  could  not — more  intelligibly  reveal." 
Its  obscurity  is  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that  it  is 
broken  by  many  apparently  irrele\'ant  episodes,  several 
of  thena  of  a  humorous  character. 

FitzGerald  translated  the  main  poem  into  blank 
verse  and  the  episodes  into  a  brisk,  unrhymcd  Trochaic 
metre,  with  Parocmiac  pauses. 


92  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [ohap. 

Perhaps  the  most  effective  passage  occurs  in  the 
introductory  invocation  : — 

"  And  yet,  how  long,  O  Jami,  stringing  Verse, 
Pearl  after  pearl,  on  that  old  Harp  of  thine  ? 
Year  after  year  attuning  some  new  Song, 
The  breath  of  some  old  Story  1     Life  is  gone, 
And  that  last  song  is  not  the  last ;  my  Soul 
Is  spent — and  still  a  Story  to  he  told  ! 
And  I,  whose  hack  is  crooked  as  the  Harp 
I  still  keep  tuning  through  the  Night  till  Day  ! 
That  harp  untuned  by  Time— the  harper's  hand 
Shaking  with  Age — how  shall  the  harper's  hand 
Repair  its  cunning,  and  the  sweet  old  harp 
Be  modulated  as  of  old  ?     Methinks 
'Twere  time  to  break  and  cast  it  in  the  fire  ; 
The  vain  old  harp,  that  breathing  from  its  strings 
No  music  more  to  charm  the  ears  of  men. 
May,  from  its  scented  ashes,  as  it  burns. 
Breathe  resignation  to  the  Harper's  soul. 
Now  that  his  body  looks  to  dissolution. 

Pain  sits  with  me  sitting  behind  my  knees, 
From  which  I  hardly  rise  unhelpt  of  hand  ; 
I  bow  down  to  my  root,  and  like  a  Child 
Yearn,  as  is  likely,  to  my  Mother  Earth, 
L^pon  whose  bosom  I  shall  cease  to  weep, 
And  on  my  Mother's  bosom  fall  aslee])." 

The  story  is  thus — the  Shah  of  Yiinan  prays  for  a 
son ;  and  a  divinely  gifted  child,  Salaman,  of  extra- 
ordinary beauty,  strength,  and  wit,  is  sent  him.  The 
child  is  nursed  by  a  young  foster-mother  Abstil.  As 
he  grows  to  manhood,  Saldmiin  learns  to  love  her,  and 
sinks  into  idle  dalliance.  He  is  rebuked  by  the  Shah 
and  by  a  Sage,  and  bidden  to  live  more  manfully.  He 
determines  to  fly  with  Absiil,  sets  forth  for  the  desert, 
and  reaches  a  wide  sea  Avhere  he  embarks  on  a  magic 


v.]  WRITINGS— 03f A R  KHAYYAAf  93 

skiff,  which  hears  the  pair  to  an  isle  of  Paradise ;  there 
for  a  while  they  dwell,  till,  struck  by  contrition,  he 
returns,  and,  torn  between  duty  and  passion,  resolves 
to  die  with  Absdl.  They  fling  themselves  together 
into  a  pyre,  but  though  Absdl  perishes,  Salamdn  is 
preserved  by  magical  arts. 

In  the  second  part  Salamdn  slowly  climbs  out  of  his 
despair,  learns  wisdom,  and  is  crowned  King.  There 
follows  a  long,  mystical  interpretation  of  the  parable, 
which  is  little  moi'e  than  the  old  thought  of  the 
Conquest  of  Self,  nursed  by  Pleasure,  wrought  out  by 
suffering. 

The  finest  passage  is  probably  the  description  of  the 
great  sea  :• — 

"  .Six  days  Salaman  on  the  Camel  rode, 
Aud  then  the  hissing  arrows  of  reproof 
Were  fallen  fer  behind  ;  and  on  the  Seventli 
He  halted  on  the  Seashore  ;  on  the  shore 
Of  a  great  Sea  that  reaching  like  a  floor 
Of  rolling  firmament  below  the  Sky's 
From  Kiif  to  Kaf,  to  Gau  and  Mahi '  down 
Descended,  and  its  Stars  were  living  eyes. 
The  Face  of  it  was  as  it  were  a  range 
Of  moving  Mountains  ;  or  a  countless  host 
Of  Camels  troo^iing  tumultuously  up, 
Host  over  host,  and  foaming  at  the  lip. 
Within,  innumerable  glittering  things 
Sharp  as  cut  Jewels,  to  the  sharpest  eye 
Scarce  visible,  hitiier  and  thither  slipping, 
As  silver  scissors  slice  a  blue  brocade." 

There  is  a  certain  Oriental  splendour  about  this  ; 
but  it  is  loosely  put  together,  and  there  aic  obvious 
faults  l)oth  of  metre  and  language. 

The  whole  translation,  it  must  bo  confessed,  is  a 
languid  performance.  The  figure  of  FitzGcrald  seems 
1  Tbe  iiivstical  bonudaries  and  l)a9es  of  the  \v  irld. 


94  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [CHAr. 

to  move  and  pace  as  it  were  uneasily,  embarrassed  and 
encumbered  by  the  rich  and  pictorial  draperies.  One 
feels  that  he  was  following  the  original  too  closely, 
and  had  not  the  courage  boldly  to  discard  the  Eastern 
imagery,  as  he  did  in  Omar,  where  he  selected  enough 
to  give  his  version  an  Oriental  colouring  while  he 
escaped  from  the  weiglit  of  the  unfamiliar  and  over- 
loaded texture.  He  was  aAvare,  indeed,  that  he  had  not 
Avholly  succeeded  with  Saldnidn ;  he  wrote  to  Norton  : — - 

"  Omar  remains  as  he  was  ;  Jami  (Salaman)  is  cut  down  to 
two-thirds  of  his  former  proportion,  and  very  much  improved, 
I  think.  It  is  still  in  a  wrong  key  ;  Verse  of  Miltonic  strain, 
unlike  the  simple  Eastern  ;  I  remember  trying  that  at  first, 
bxit  could  not  succeed.  So  tliere  is  little  but  the  Allegory 
itself  (not  a  bad  one),  and  now  condensed  into  a  very  fair 
Bird's  Eye  view  ;  cjuite  enough  for  any  Allegory,  I  think.  .  .  ." 

The  Saldmdn  and  Ahsdl  is  indeed  interesting  only 
in  the  light  of  Omar,  as  revealing  the  process  where- 
by rich  results  were  attained,  though  it  is  hard  to 
repress  a  sense  of  wonder  that  the  uncertain  hand 
which  penned  the  Saldmdn  can  have  worked  in  the 
same  material  with  such  firm  and  easy  strokes  as  were 
employed  in  the  Omar. 

The  interest,  then,  is  almost  purely  critical,  the 
interest  of  an  early  essay  in  an  art  in  which  the  author 
afterwards  attained  so  splendid  a  mastery. 

The  Bird  Parliament,  by  Atlar,  attracted  FitzGerald's 
attention  about  1856.  In  1857  an  edition  of  the  text 
was  published  by  Garein  de  Tassy,  who  had  previously 
aiialy.sed  the  poem.  FitzGerald  began  to  study  the 
book  carefully,  and  wrote  to  Cowell  in  India  that  the 
apologues  were  shaping  themselves  into  verse.  In 
1862  he  had  finished  a  verse-translation  which  he 
intendeti  at  one  time  to  publish  in  the  Journal  of  the 
Benijal  Asiatic  Society ;    but  he  became  aware  that  it 


v.]  WRlTmOS— OMAR  KHAVYAm  95 

was  too  free  a  version  to  be  given  in  the  pages  of  a 
scientific  publication.     The  plot  is  as  follows  : — 

The  birds  assemble  to  choose  a  king;  and  recite 
their  several  claims  to  sovereignty.  The  Tajidar 
(Crown-wearer),  or  Persian  Lapwing,  acts  as  a  kind 
of  Moderator.  The  Tajidar  has  travelled  the  Road 
of  faith,  and  has  attained  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  presence  of  God ;  after  the  birds  have  finished 
their  statements,  the  Tajidar  expounds  the  mysteries 
of  faith  and  attainment.  His  words  inspire  the  faithful 
birds  with  enthusiasm.  The  Tajidar  is  crowned  King, 
and  after  a  long,  mystical  discourse  on  the  naturc 
of  the  search  for  truth,  a  chosen  band  sets  oflf  on 
Pilgrimage,  the  more  mundane  and  secular  of  the 
birds  retiring  to  their  ordinary  occupations.  Some 
thirty,  under  the  guidance  of  the  Tajidar,  attain  to 
the  vision  of  God.  Thus  it  may  be  said  that  the  plot 
is  somewhat  analogous  to  that  of  The  Hoi//  Grail. 

It  is  a  carefully  wrought  poem,  extending  to  many 
hundred  lines  ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
Oriental  flavour  is  too  strong ;  the  discursiveness,  the 
lack  of  definite  design,  the  excess  of  ornament  are 
both  irritating  and  unsatisfying.  The  narrative  is 
broken  by  the  intrusion  of  many  little  fables  and 
allegories ;  this  device,  somewhat  resembling  the 
inclusion  of  box  within  box,  lacquered  and  gilded,  is 
highly  characteristic  of  the  tangential  and  desultory 
Oriental  mind,  but  to  a  Western  readei',  it  tends 
merely  to  confuse  the  structure  of  the  poem. 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  al)()nt  FitzGerald's 
Omar  Khayijdin  ;  it  has  received  from  its  admirers  the 
sort  of  treatment,  the  poking  and  ])ushing,  ct)nceded  to 
prize  animals  at  shows;  it  has  been  ma<le  the  subject 
of  microscopical  investigation;  the  alterations  made  by 


96  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

FitzGerald  himself  in  the  various  editions  have  afforded 
a  rich  field  for  textual  comparison  and  criticism.  Yet 
the  origin  of  the  poem  can  be  very  simply  stated. 
FitzGerald  happened  to  light  upon  an  ancient  poet, 
through  whose  writings,  in  spite  of  much  tedious 
iteration  and  dreary  moralising,  much  sensual  imagery 
and  commonplace  Epicureanism,  ran  a  vein  of  thought 
strangely  familiar  to  his  own  temperament.  Omar 
was  a  sentimentalist,  and  a  lover  of  beauty,  both 
human  and  natural ;  so  was  FitzGerald.  Omar  tended 
to  linger  over  golden  memories  of  the  past,  and  was 
acutely  alive  to  the  pathos  of  sweet  things  that  have  an 
ending;  and  such  was  FitzGerald.  Omar  was  pene- 
trated with  a  certain  dark  philosophy,  the  philosophy 
of  the  human  spirit  at  bay,  when  all  refuge  has  failed ; 
and  this  was  the  case  with  FitzGerald. 

The  result  was  that  out  of  the  ore  which  was 
afforded  him,  FitzGerald,  by  this  time  a  practised 
craftsman  without  a  subject,  was  enabled  to  chase  and 
chisel  his  delicate  stanzas,  like  little  dainty  vessels  of 
pure  gold.  He  brought  to  the  task  a  rich  and  stately 
vocabulary,  and  a  st^^le  adapted  to  solemn  and  some- 
what rhetorical  musings  of  a  philosophical  kind.  Fitz- 
Gerald's  love  of  slow-moving  verse  adorned  by  beautiful 
touches  of  natural  observation  and  of  pathetic  present- 
ment stood  him  in  good  stead.  The  result  was  that  a 
man  of  high  literary  taste  found  for  once  a  subject 
precisely  adapted  to  his  best  faculty ;  a  subject,  the 
strength  of  which  was  his  own  strength,  and  the 
limitations  of  which  were  his  own  limitations. 

Moreover,  the  poem  was  fortunate  both  in  the  time 
and  manner  of  its  appearance  ;  there  was  a  wave  of 
pessimism  astir  in  the  world,  the  pessimism  of  an  age 
that  dares  not  live  without  pleasure,  in  whose  mouth 
simplicity  is  a  synonym  for  dulness,  tortured  alike  by 


v.]  WRITINGS— OMAR  K HAY r Am  97 

its  desires  and  by  the  satiety  of  their  satisfaction,  and 
overshadowed  by  the  inherited  conscience  which  it 
contemns  but  cannot  disregard. 

Further,  it  was  fortunate  in  the  manner  of  its  appear- 
ance. If  FitzGerald  had  presented  the  workl  with  an 
original  poem  of  dreary  scepticism  and  desperate 
philosophy,  he  would  have  found  but  few  hearers. 
But  the  sad  and  ^vasted  form  of  his  philosophy  came 
slowly  forwards,  dimly  smiling,  draped  in  this  rich 
Oriental  fabric,  and  with  all  the  added  mystery  of 
venerable  antiquity.  It  heightened  the  charm  to 
readers,  living  in  a  season  of  outworn  faith  and  restless 
dissatisfaction,  to  find  that  eight  hundred  years  before, 
far  across  the  centuries,  in  the  dim  and  remote  East, 
the  same  problems  had  pressed  sadly  on  the  mind  of 
an  ancient  and  accomplished  sage.  They  did  not  realise 
to  what  an  extent  FitzGerald  had  concentrated  the 
scattered  rays  into  his  burning-glass ;  nor  how  much  of 
the  poignant  sadness,  the  rich  beauty  of  the  thought 
had  been  overlaid  upon  the  barer  texture  of  the  original 
writer  by  the  far  more  sensitive  and  perceptive  mind 
of  the  translator.  It  was  as  though  FitzGerald  had 
foiuid  some  strict  and  solemn  melody  of  a  bygone  age, 
and  enriched  it  with  new  and  honeyed  harmonies,  ad(le<l 
melancholy  cadences  and  sweet  interludes  of  sorrow. 
He  always  tended,  as  Cowell  wrote  to  Mr.  Aldis 
Wright,  "  to  put  in  some  touch  of  his  own  large  liand 
,  .  .  beyond  the  author's  outline." 

There  is  little  that  need  be  said,  little  indeed  that 
can  be  said,  about  the  style  which  FitzGerald  adopted 
for  his  Omar.  It  is  not  due  to  any  special  poetical 
tradition  ;  the  poem  is  written  in  a  grave,  resonant 
English  of  a  stately  kind,  often  with  a  certain  Latinity 
of  phrase,  and  yet  never  really  avoiding  a  homely 
directness   both    of    diction   and  statement.      His  aim 


98  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

appears  to  have  been  to  produce  melodious,  lucid,  and 
epigrammatic  stanzas,  which  should  as  far  as  possible 
follow  the  general  lines  of  the  original  thought ;  but 
at  the  same  time  he  did  not  hesitate  to  discard  and 
suppress  anything  that  interfered  with  his  own  concep- 
tion of  structure  ;  no  doubt  the  exigencies  of  rhyme  to 
a  certain  extent  influenced  the  line  of  his  thought,  be- 
cause the  triple  rhyme  which  he  employed  is  bound  to 
impose  fetters  on  the  fancy ;  but  he  seems  to  have  given 
no  hint  as  to  how  he  worked ;  the  wonder  rather  is 
that  anything  which  is  of  the  nature  of  a  paraphrase 
should  succeed  in  achieving  so  profound  an  originality. 

I  do  not  propose,  in  the  following  pages,  to  treat  the 
poem  from  the  Orientalist  point  of  view ;  it  is  a  deeply 
interesting  task,  but  demands  a  fulness  and  minute- 
ness of  treatment  which  puts  it  quite  outside  the  scope 
of  this  biography  ;  it  has,  moreover,  been  exhaustively 
done ;  and  after  all,  it  is  the  expression  and  spirit  of 
the  poem  in  English,  and  not  its  fidelity  to  or  di- 
vergence from  its  Oriental  original,  which  gives  Fitz- 
Gerald  his  position  in  the  world  of  letters. 

A  careful  study  of  FitzGerald's  letters  to  Cowell  in 
1857,  while  the  Omar  was  in  process  of  construction, 
has  revealed  to  me  both  how  desultory  his  method 
was,  and  also  how  difficult  he  found  the  elucidation  of 
the  meaning.  These  letters  have  never  been  published 
— indeed  they  are  too  technical  for  publication — but 
have  been  shown  me  by  Mr.  Aldis  Wright.  FitzGerald 
seems  to  ))e  constantly  uncertain  whether  he  had 
arrived  at  the  true  meaning  of  a  passage  :  "  I  am  not 
always  quite  certain  of  always  getting  the  right  sow 
by  the  ear,"  he  writes  at  the  conclusion  of  a  long 
string  of  questions.  The  letters  are  written  more 
like  diaries ;  and  he  added  to  his  queries  day  by  day, 
as  he  made  progress  with  the  work. 


v.]  WRITINGS— OJ/^i?  KHA  YYAM  89 

Tho^  story  of  FitzGerald's  acquaintance  with  the 
original  book  is  interesting  enough.  His  friend 
Cowell,  who  introduced  him  to  the  study  of  Oriental 
poetry,  had  found  in  the  Bodleian,  in  the  Ouseley 
collection,  a  rare  manuscript,  written  on  yellow  paper 
"with  purple-black  ink  profusely  powdered  with  gold." 
Before  leaving  England  for  India,  he  made  a  transcript 
of  this  for  FitzGerald,  who  carried  it  about  with  him, 
brooded  over  it,  and  worked  slowly  and  leisurely  at 
the  task  of  adaptation. 

Thus  he  -wrote  to  Cowell : — 

"  When  in  Bedfordshire  I  put  away  almost  all  Books  except 
Omar  Khayyam  !  which  I  could  not  help  looking  over  in  a 
Paddock  covered  with  Buttercups  and  brushed  by  a  delicious 
Breeze,  while  a  dainty  racing  Filly  of  W.  Browne's  came 
startling  up  to  wonder  and  snuff  about  me.  '  Tempus  est  quo 
Orientis  Aura  mundus  renovatur,  Quo  de  fonte  pluviali  dulcis 
Imber  reseratur ;  Musi-manus  undecumque  ramos  insuper 
splendescit ;  Jesu-spiritusque  Salutaris  terram  pervagatur.'  ^ 
Which  is  to  be  read  as  Monkish  Latin,  like  '  Dies  Irae,'  etc., 
retaining  the  Italian  value  of  the  Vowels,  not  the  Classical. 
You  will  think  me  a  perfectly  Aristophanic  Old  Man  when  I 
tell  you  how  many  of  Omar  I  could  not  help  running  into 
such  bad  Latin.  I  should  not  confide  such  follies  but  to  you 
who  won't  think  them  so,  and  who  will  be  pleased  at  least 
with  my  still  harping  on  our  old  Studies.  You  would  be 
sorry,  too,  to  think  that  Omar  breathes  a  sort  of  Consolation 
to  me.  Poor  Fellow  ;  I  think  of  him,  and  Oliver  Basselin, 
and  Anacreon  ;  lighter  Shadows  among  the  Shades,  perhaps, 
over  which  Lucretius  presides  so  grimly." 

In  1857  Cowell  sent  FitzGerald  a  further  instal- 
ment of  Omar  literature,  namely,  a  copy  of  a  Calcutta 
manuscript,  and  a  rare  volume,  which  had  been  edited 
ffom  that  manuscript,  and  printed  in  1836. 

^  A  rendering,  somewhat  loose,  of  tlie  stanza  "  Now  the  New 
Year,"  etc. 


100  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chai-. 

The  writer  of  this  l)Ook  was  one  Omar  Khayyam, 
who  was  living  about  the  time  of  the  Norman  Con- 
quest. He  died  probably  in  1123.  The  legend  goes 
that  he  and  two  fellow-pupils  when  boys  at  school 
took  a  vow  that  if  any  of  them  rose  to  eminence  they 
Avould  share  their  good  fortune  with  the  others.  One 
of  them  became  Vizier  to  the  Sultan  Alp-ArsUn, 
the  son  of  the  Tartar,  Toghrul  Beg,  founder  of  the 
Seljukian  Dynasty,  which  finally  roused  Europe  into 
the  Crusades.  The  Vizier  seeking  out,  or  being  sought 
out  by,  his  old  friends,  gave  to  one,  Avith  a  truly 
Oriental  instinct  for  what  would  now  be  called  jobbery, 
a  place  under  Government,  and  to  Omar,  who  was  a 
man  of  scholarly  tastes,  a  mathematician  and  an 
astronomer,  a  large  pension.  Omar  Avas  not  a  mere 
dilettante.  He  composed  mathematical,  metaphysical 
and  scientific  treatises.  He  was  one  of  a  Board  who 
reformed  the  Calendar,  a  fact  which  he  mentions  in  his 
poems.  Omar  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  self- 
contained  and  unsociable  temperament,  disinclined  to 
labour,  and  given,  at  all  events  in  later  life,  to  gross 
self-indulgence.  The  recorded  incidents  of  his  life  are 
but  few,  and  much  that  is  legendary  is  undoubtedly 
intertwined  with  them  ;  but  there  is  one  which  is  so 
entirely  in  the  spirit  of  FitzGerald  that  it  must  be 
repeated.  Walking  in  a  garden  with  a  favourite  pupil, 
he  said  one  day,  "  My  tomb  shall  be  in  a  spot  where 
the  North  wind  may  scatter  roses  over  it."  Many 
years  after,  when  the  young  man  visited  the  tomb 
of  Omar  at  Nishapur,  he  found  that  the  rose-trees 
of  a  neighbouring  garden  sti'etched  their  boughs 
over  the  wall,  and  strewed  the  tomb  with  "  wreck 
of  white  and  red." 

The  Bodleian  MS.  of  the  Kubdiyat  or  Quatrains, 
contains  158  stanzas,  though  manv  more  are  attributed 


v.]  WniTlJUGS— OMAli  KIT  A  YrA^f  101 

to  him.  They  are  not  continuous  as  a  rule,  thougli 
in  some  cases  an  episode  runs  through  a  number  of 
them.  They  are  rather  to  be  called  epigrams,  each 
dealing,  like  a  compressed  sonnet,  ■with  some  single 
thought — with  love  and  wine,  beauty  and  charm, 
life  and  death,  and  what  lies  beyond.  But  Fitz- 
Gerald  by  selection  and  arrangement  made  a  certain 
progression  or  series  out  of  them,  tracing  in  vague 
outline  a  soul's  histor3% 

FitzGorald  wrote  of  the  Rubdiyat  that  they  "are 
independent  stanzas,  consisting  each  of  four  lines  of 
equal,  though  A-aried,  Prosody ;  sometimes  all  rhyming, 
but  oftener  (as  here  imitated)  the  third  line  a  blank. 
Somewhat  as  in  the  Greek  Alcaic,  where  the  penulti- 
mate line  seems  to  lift  and  suspend  the  WaA'e  that  falls 
over  in  the  last.  As  usual  with  such  kind  of  Oriental 
Verse,  the  Rubdiyat  follow  one  another  according  to 
Alphabetic  Rhyme— a  strange  succession  of  Grave  and 
Gay." 

It  .-eems  that  about  half  of  FitzGerald's  stanzas  arc 
adaptations  of  single  quatrains  ;  about  half  are  adapted 
out  of  two  or  more  quatrains  :  four  show  traces  of 
thoughts  taken  from  other  poets.  Attar  and  Hafiz ; 
two  are  from  quatrains  of  doubtful  authority ;  and 
three  appear  to  have  no  original  model ;  there  are  a  few 
others  which  similarly  appear  to  l)c  purely  the  work  of 
FitzGerald  ;  but  the  fact  that  lie  discarded  them  in 
later  editions  tends  to  prove  tliat  he  was  anxious  to 
] 'reserve  the  idea  of  translation.  Fitzgerald's  principle 
(if  interpolating  lines  fi'uni  other  stanzas  is  illustrated 
\>y  what  he  wrote  to  Cowell  : — 

"  I  think  yon  might   string   togetlier  tlie  stray  good  Lines 
from  ';omo  of  tho  otlierwise  w.irthless  Odes — empty  Bottler  !- 
in  ;i  very  good  fashion  \vhicli  J  '.vill  tell  you  about  \^]\en  uu 
meet.'"' 


102  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

One  other  point  deserves  to  be  mentioned.  Fitz- 
Gerald  was  for  ever  fretting  over  the  quatrains  and 
retouching  them ;  no  less  than  four  editions  appeared 
in  his  lifetime,  containing  many  variations  ;  and  it  is 
clear  that  the  more  he  altered,  the  more  he  tended  to 
diverge  from  the  original  thought.  We  may  take  two 
or  three  typical  instances  of  the  process  of  alteration 
which  took  place  in  the  various  editions  of  the  poem. 
Stanza  i.  originally  stood  : — 

"  Awake  I  for  Morning  in  the  Bowl  of  Night 
Has  flung  the  Stone  that  puts  the  Stars  to  Flight : 

And  lo  !  the  Hunter  of  the  East  has  caught 
The  Sultan's  Turret  in  a  Noose  of  Light." 

In  the  second  edition  this  was  altered  to  : — 
"  Wake  !  for  the  Sun  behind  yon  Eastern  height 
Has  chased  the  Session  of  the  Stars  from  Night : 

And,  to  the  field  of  Heav'n  ascending,  strikes 
The  Sultan's  Turret  with  a  Shaft  of  Light." 

In  the  third  edition  (first  draft)  the  first  couplet  of 
the  quatrain  ran  : — 

"  Wake  I  for  the  Sun  before  him  into  Night 
A  Signal  flung  that  put  the  Stars  to  flight "  : 

In  the  fourth  edition  we  read  :— 

"  Wake  !  for  the  Sun  who  scatter  'd  into  flight 
The  Stars  before  him  from  the  Field  of  Night, 

Drives  Night  along  with  them   from    Heav'n,  and 
strikes 
The  Sultiln's  Turret  with  a  Shaft  of  Light." 

The  original  quatrain,  literally  translated  by  Mr. 
Heron-Allen,  runs  : — 

"  The  Sun  casts  the  noose  of  morning  upon  the  roofs  ; 
Kai  Khosru  ^  of  the  day,  he  throws  a  stone  into  the  Bowl : 

1  This  expression,  which  is  merely  the  name  of  an  ancient 
Persian  king,  Chosroes  i.,  is  practically  eqiuvalent  t« 
"sovereign  Lord  and  Master." 


v.]  WRITINGS— OiV^ /?  KHAYYAM  103 

Drink  wine  !  for  the  Herald  of  the  Dawn,  rising  up 
Hurls  into  the  days  the  cry  of  ' Drink  ye  I '" 

It  will  be  seen  by  comparing  these  versions  how  the 
stanza  travelled  gradually  further  and  further  away 
from  the  imagery  of  the  original ;  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  first  version  is  not  the  most  beautiful ; 
and  it  is  certainly  an  imperfection  in  the  latest  version 
that  the  rhyme  Night  is  repeated  early  in  the  third 
line,  while  the  assonance  of  the  vowel-sound  of 
"  strikes "  hardly  provides  a  strong  enough  contrast, 
considering  that  the  relief  given  to  the  ear  by  the 
unrhymed  ending  of  the  third  line  is  thus  partially 
sacrificed. 

Stanza  x.  of  the  first  edition  originally  ran  : — 

"  With  me  along  some  strip  of  Herbage  strown 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown 
Where  name  of  Slave  and  Sultan  scarce  is  known 
And  pity  Sultdn  Mahmiid  on  his  throne." 

An  awkward  and  monotonous  stanza. 

In  the  second  and  later  editions  the  quatrain 
runs : — 

"  With  me  along  the  stri])  of  Herbage  strown 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown, 

Where  name  of  Slave  and  Sultdn  is  forgot, 
And  Peace  to  Mahmiid  on  his  golden  Throne  !  " 

This  stanza  appears  to  have  no  original  in  the 
Tersian,  but  to  have  been  evolved  out  of  FitzGerald's 
own  mind,  except  that  Omar  .sometimes  speaks  of  the 
edge  of  the  tilled  country,  "the  green  bank  of  a  field" 
on  which  he  loved  to  rest. 

But  the  alterations  are  subtle  and  delicate;  the 
change  from  "  some  "  to  "  the  "  lightens  the  weight  of 
the  first  line  ;  the  removal  of  the  rhyme  at  the  eiul  of 
the  third  line  i^ives  relief ;  and  few  will  doubt  that  the 


104  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

wish  that  the  Sultan  may  enjoy  peace  is  more  in 
keeping  with  the  contented  mood  than  to  think  of  him 
with  pity.  He  is  taken  in,  so  to  speak,  into  the  inner 
circle  of  sunshine  which  for  an  hour  may  lie  upon  the 
sorrowing  earth. 

In  the  original  edition,  stanza  xxxiii.  ran  : — 

"  Then  to  the  rolling  Heav'n  itself  I  cried, 
Asking  '  What  Lamp  had  Destiny  to  guide 

Her  little  Children,  stumbling  in  the  Dark  V 
And — 'A  blind  Understanding  !'  Heav'n  replied." 

In  the  second  edition,  this  stanza  is  swept  away,  and 
the  noble  lines  are  substituted  : — 

'  Earth  could  not  answer,  nor  the  Seas  that  mourn 
In  flowing  Purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn  ; 

Nor  Heaven,  with  those  eternal  signs  reveal'd 
And  hidden  by  the  sleeve  of  Night  and  Morn." 

In  the  third  edition  the  third  line  becomes : — 
"  Nor  rolling  Heaven,  with  all  his  signs  reveal'd  "  ; 
which  is  finally  retained.^ 

There  appears  to  be  no  original  at  all  which  sug- 
gested the  first  version ;  and  though  the  third  line, 
"Her  little  Children,  stumbling  in  the  dark,"'  has  a 
pathos  of  simplicity,  the  quatrain  is  not  wholly  satis- 
factory, and  the  fourth  line  is  unmetrical.  But  the 
sonorous  stanza  as  it  finally  appears,  based  Upon  so 
slender  a  hint,  is  not  only  noble  in  itself,  but  is  pene- 
trated by  a  true  Oriental  symbolism. 

Again,  in  the  original  edition  there  stood  a  stanza 
(No.  xlv.)  Avhich  seems  to  have  had  no  parallel  iii  the 
text : — 

^  The  original  of  this  stanza  is  not  to  be  found  in  Omar  at 
all,  but  in  the  poems  of  Attar. 


v.]  WRITINGS— 0^/^ A'  AV/^  rr^il/  105 

"  But  leave  the  Wise  to  wrangle,  and  with  me 
The  Quarrel  of  the  Universe  let  be  ; 

And,  in  some  corner  of  the  Hubbub  coucht 
Make  Game  of  that  which  makes  as  much  of  Thee." 

It  may  be  questioned  why  this  stanza  has  disap- 
peared ;  possibly  it  was  because  there  was  no  original 
quatrain  corresponding  to  it ;  but  I  would  incline  to 
think  that  FitzGerald  felt  that  the  suggestion  of 
mockery  was  a  false  note,  and  that  mystery  and 
wonder,  and  the  pathos  of  short-lived  beauty  and 
happiness  were  rather  the  essence  of  his  poem. 

We  may  now  consider  in  detail  what  are  unquestion- 
ably the  noblest  stanzas  of  the  poem. 

In  the  first  edition  stanzas  Ivii.  and  Iviii.  ran  as 
follows  : — 

"  Oh  Thou,  who  didst  with  Pitfall  and  with  Gin 
Beset  the  road  I  Avas  to  wander  in, 

Thou  wilt  not  with  Predestination  round 
Enmesh  me,  and  impute  my  fall  to  Sin. 

Oh  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make. 
And  who  with  Eden  didst  devise  the  Snake  : 
For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd,  Man's  Forgiveness  give  and  take  !  " 

In  the  second  edition  three  new  stanzas  were  pre- 
fixed to  the  two  above  quoted  : — 

"  ^\'hat  I  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties,  if  broke  I 

What  I  from  his  helpless  Creature  be  repaid 
Pure  Gold  for  what  he  lent  us  dross-a]]ay"d — ^, 

Sue  for  a  Debt  \vp  never  did  contract 
And  cannot  answer— oh  the  sorrv  trade  I 


106  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Nay,  but,  for  terror  of  his  wrathful  Face, 
I  swear  I  will  not  call  Injustice  Grace  ; 

Not  one  Good  Fellow  of  the  Tavern  but 
Would  kick  so  poor  a  Coward  from  the  place." 

At  the  same  time  some  alterations  were  made  in  the 
two  stanzas  of  the  first  version;  "Predestination" 
became  "  Predestin'd  Evil." 

The  following  line  became  : — 

"Enmesh,  and  then  impute  my  fall  to  Sin." 

In  stanza  Iviii.,  'who  with  Eden  didst'  became  'and 
ev'n  with  Paradise ' ;  and  the  second  couplet  was 
altered,  decidedly  for  the  worse,  to  :— 

"  For  all  the  Sin  the  Face  of  wretched  Man 
Is  black  with — jNIan's  Forgiveness  give,  and  take  !  " 

But  in  the  third  edition  the  original  form  of  the 
couplet  was  replaced  and  retained.  At  the  same  time 
the  quatrain,  "Nay,  but,  for  terror,  etc.,"  was  elimin- 
ated by  a  very  true  instinct.  The  image  of  the 
Coward  being  kicked  from  the  tavern  is  altogether 
below  the  dignity  of  the  vein. 

It  seems  that  the  startling  line — 

"  And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake  " — 

is  based  again  upon  an  apologise  of  Attar's,  and  does 
not  occur  in  Omar. 

Professor  Cowell  says  that  the  majestic  line — 
"  Man's  Forgiveness  give,  and  take  " — 

is  a  simple  misapprehension,  arising  from  the  fact  that 
FitzGerald  thought  a  contrast  was  intended  in  the 
original  line — 

"  Thou  who  granted  repentance  and  accepted  excuses  "— 
which  was  not  really  intended  by  the  writer.    "  I  wrote 
to  him  about  it  when  I  was  in  Calcutta,"  he  added,  "  but 


v.]  WRITINGS— O.l/"^ 7?  KHAYYAm  107 

he  never  cared  to  alter  it."  But  it  is  even  more  pro- 
vable that  FitzGerakl  had  in  his  mind  a  quatrain  which 
he  translates  in  an  unpu])lishcd  letter,  "  0  God,  forgive 
when  I  repent,  and  I  will  forgive  when  Thou  repentest." 
Perhaps  the  finest  of  all  the  transformations  in  the 
poem  is  to  be  found  in  the  two  stanzas  which  sum 
up  the  stern  and  dark  philosophy  that  man  is  the 
measure  of  all  things  : — 

"  I  sent  my  soul  through  the  Invisible, 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell : 

And  by-and-by  my  soul  returned  to  me, 
And  answered,  '  I  myself  am  Heav'n  and  Hell ; 

Heav'n  but  the  Vision  of  fulfill'd  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire, 

Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Ourselves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire.' " 

"Already,"  says  Omar,  "on  the  day  of  Creation, 
beyond  the  heavens,  my  soul 

"  Searched  for  the  Tablet  and  Pen,^  for  heaven  and  hell  ; 
At   last   the   Teacher  said   to  me  with  His  enlightened 

judgment. 
Tablet  and  Pen,  and  heaven  and  hell,  are  within  thyself. 

The  heavenly   vault   is  a  girdle   (cast)  from  my   weary 

body. 
Jihun  (Oxus)  is  a  watercourse  worn  by  my  filtered  tears, 
Hell  is  a  sj)ark  from  my  useless  worries, 
Paradise  is  a  moment  of  time  when  I  am  tranquil."  ^ 

And  perhaps  the  line  of  Attar,  "  Heaven  and  hell  arc 
reflections,  the  one  of  Thy  goodness  and  the  other  of 
Thy  wrath,"  lends  a  sidelight  to  the  stanza. 

What  is  notable  in  Fit/A Tcrald's  version  is  that  he 
has  caught  the  central  thought,  and  both  simpliliod 
and  amplified  it.     He  has  discarded  several  beautiful 

'   "Tablet  and  Prn  "  are  tht-  Divine  dicii'es  of  fate. 
■■^  Traiislat.'d  by  Mr.  i:.  Heron- Alb-n. 


108  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Oriental  touches,  such  as  that  in  the  first  stanra  of 
Omar,  that  the  quest  has  been  from  all  time ;  and  in 
the  second,  that  even  the  rivers  of  earth  take  their 
part  in  the  sad  fellowship.  But  here  in  FitzGerald 
the  vesture  of  the  soul  is  torn  aside,  and  the  spirit, 
at  once  timorous  and  indomitable,  is  revealed  in  its 
utter  nakedness;  and  the  terrifying  thought  added 
that,  so  far  as  knowledge  can  go,  the  very  perception 
of  the  deepest  things  of  the  world  can  only  be  the 
unconfirmed  inference  of  the  single  soul. 

The  story  of  the  publication  and  reception  of  the 
book  are  too  curious  to  be  omitted.  FitzGerald  sent 
the  manuscript  to  Fraser's  Magazine  in  1858.  Almost 
exactly  a  year  later,  in  1859,  as  the  poem  did  not 
appear,  he  demanded  its  return,  and  published  it  in 
a  small  quarto  in  a  brown  wrapper,  the  price  five 
shillings.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  copies  were  printed. 
He  sent  a  few  to  his  friends,  and  the  rest  he  gave  to 
Quaritch.  The  history  of  their  "discovery"  is  as 
follows. 

Mr.  Swinburne  says  : — 

"Two  friends  of  Rossetti's — Mr.  Wiiitley  Stokes  and  Mr. 
Ormsby — told  him  (he  told  nie)  of  this  wonderful  little 
pamphlet  for  sale  on  a  stall  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  to  which 
]Mr.  Quaritch,  finding  that  the  British  public  unanimously 
declined  to  give  a  shilling  for  it,  had  relegated  it  to  be 
disposed  of  for  a  penny.  Having  read  it,  Rossetti  and  I 
invested  upwards  of  sixpence  apiece — or  possibly  threepence 
— I  would  not  wish  to  exaggerate  our  extravagance — in  copies 
at  that  not  exorbitant  price.  Next  day  we  thought  Ave  might 
get  some  more  for  presents  among  our  friends,  but  the  man 
at  the  stall  asked  twopence  !  Rossetti  expostulated  with  him 
in  terms  of  such  humorously  indignant  remonstrance  as  none 
but  he  could  ever  have  conmianded.  We  took  a  few,  and 
left  him.  In  a  week  or  two,  if  I  am  not  much  mistiiken,  the 
remaining  copies  were  sold  at  a  guinea  ;  I  have  since — ;;~  I 


V.J  WRITINGS— OMAR  KJ/AYYJm  109 

dare  say  you  have — seen  copies  oflered  for  still  more  absurd 
prices.  I  kept  my  pcnuywortli  (the  tidiest  copy  of  the  lot), 
and  have  it  still." 

FitzGerald's  own  account  of  the  motives  wliich 
induced  him  to  publish  the  book  is  as  follows.  He 
wrote  to  Cowell : — 

"I  sent  yoxi  poor  old  Omar,  who  has  /a'.s  kind  of  Consola- 
tion for  all  these  Things.  I  doubt  you  will  rctrret  you  ever 
introduced  him  to  me.  And  yet  you  would  have  me  print 
the  original,  with  many  worse  things  than  I  have  translated. 
The  Bird  Epic  might  be  finished  at  once  :  but  cui  bono  ?  No 
one  cares  for  such  things  ;  and  there  are  doubtless  so  many 
better  things  to  care  about.  I  hardly  know  why  I  print  any 
of  these  things,  which  nobody  buys  ;  and  I  scarce  now  see 
the  few  I  give  them  to.  But  when  one  has  done  one's  best, 
and  is  sure  that  that  best  is  better  than  so  many  will  take 
pains  to  do,  though  far  from  the  best  that  'might  he  done,  one 
likes  to  make  an  end  of  the  matter  by  Print.  I  suppose  very 
few  People  have  ever  taken  such  Pains  in  Translation  as  I 
have  ;  though  certainly  not  to  be  literal.  But  at  all  Cost,  a 
Thing  must  live  :  with  a  transfusion  of  one's  own  worse  Life 
if  one  can't  retain  the  Original's  better.  Better  a  live  Sparrow 
than  a  stuffed  Eagle.  I  shall  be  very  well  i)leased  to  see  the 
new  MS.  of  Omar.  I  shall  one  day  (if  I  live)  print  the  Birds, 
and  a  strange  experiment  on  old  Calderon's  two  great  Plays  ; 
and  then  shut  up  Shop  in  the  Poetic  Line." 

Again,  almost  at  the  end  of  his  life,  he  wrote  a  long 
letter  on  the  whole  subject,  which  is  interesting  :— 

"  In  Omar's  ca,se  it  was  diflVrent  :  he  sang,  in  an  acceptable 
v.iy  it  seems,  of  what  all  men  feel  in  their  hearts,  but  had  not 
had  e.xprost  in  verse  before  :  J;inu  tells  of  what  everybody 
knows,  under  cover  of  a  not  very  skilful  Allegory.  I  have 
undoulitedly  improved  the  whole  by  Iwiling  it  down  to  about 
a  (^Miarter  of  its  original  size  ;  and  tliere  are  many  pretty 
things  in  it,  th()u;j.h  the  blank  Verse  is  too  Millonic  f'l- 
Oriental  stvle. 


110  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

"  All  this  considered,  why  did  I  ever  meddle  with  it  ? 
Why,  it  was  the  first  Persian  Poem  I  read,  with  my  friend 
Edward  Cowell,  near  on  forty  years  ago ;  and  I  was  so  well 
pleased  with  it  then  (and  now  think  it  almost  the  best  of  the 
Persian  Poems  I  have  read  or  heard  about)  that  I  published 
my  Version  of  it  in  1856  (I  think)  with  Parker  of  the  Strand. 
When  Parker  disappeared,  my  unsold  Copies,  many  more  than 
of  the  sold,  were  returned  to  me,  some  of  which,  if  not  all,  I 
gave  to  little  Quaritch,  who,  I  believe,  trumpeted  them  off  to 
some  little  profit ;  and  I  thought  no  more  of  them. 

"But  some  six  or  seven  years  ago  that  Sheikh  of  mine, 
Edward  Cowell,  who  liked  the  Version  better  than  any  one 
else,  wished  it  to  be  reprinted.  So  I  took  it  in  hand,  boiled 
it  down  to  three-fourths  of  what  it  originally  was,  and  (as  you 
see)  clapped  it  on  the  back  of  Omar,  where  I  still  believed  it 
would  hang  somewhat  of  a  dead  weight ;  but  that  was 
Quaritch's  look-out,  not  mine.  I  have  never  heard  of  any 
notice  taken  of  it,  but  just  now  from  you  ;  and  I  believe  that, 
say  what  you  would,  people  would  I'uther  have  the  old  Sinner 
alone.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  write  all  this  to  you.  I  doubt 
not  that  any  of  your  Editors  would  accept  an  Article  from  you 
on  the  Subject,  but  I  believe  also  they  would  much  prefer  one 
on  many  another  Subject ;  and  so,  probably,  with  the  Public 
whom  you  write  for. 

"  Thus  liheravi  aniriiam  meam  for  your  behoof,  as  I  am 
rightly  bound  to  do  in  return  for  your  Goodwill  to  me." 

Ill  a  rather  more  humorous  vein,  he  had  written 
twenty  years  before  to  W.  H.  Thompson  : — 

"  As  to  my  own  Peccadilloes  in  Verse,  which  never  pretend 
to  be  original,  this  is  the  story  of  Eubdiyat.  I  had  trans- 
lated them  partly  for  Cowell  ;  young  Parker  asked  me  some 
years  ago  for  something  for  Fraser,  and  I  gave  him  the  less 
wicked  of  these  to  use  as  he  chose.  He  kept  them  for  two 
years  without  using  ;  and  as  I  saw  he  didn't  want  them,  I 
printed  some  copies  with  Quaritch  ;  and  keeping  some  for 
myself,  gave  him  the  rest.  Cowell,  to  whom  I  sent  a  copy, 
was  naturally  alarmed  at  it,  he  being  a  very  religious  !M;in  : 


v.]  WRITINGS— OJ/^/?  KHAYYAm  111 

nor  have  I  given  any  other  Coi^y  but  to  George  Borrow  .  .  . 
and  to  old  Donne.  .  .  ." 

The  fame  of  the  book  was  at  first  secret,  and  con- 
fined (TvveTol(TLv.  Not  until  nine  years  had  passed  was 
a  second  edition  published.  The  first  edition  contained 
only  seventy-five  quatrains,  the  second  one  hundred 
and  ten,  the  third  and  fourth,  which  were  the  only 
later  ones  published  in  the  author's  lifetime,  one  hun- 
dred and  one.  Since  then  it  has  gone  through  many 
editions  both  in  England  and  America.  It  is  one  of 
the  rare  cases  of  a  work  of  supreme  merit  escaping 
notice  at  first ;  but  a  proof  of  its  originality  is  the  fact 
that  the  metre  appeal's  to  be  consecrated  by  right  to 
FitzGerald  :  it  is  like  the  In  Memoriam  stanza ;  it  seems 
impossible  to  use  either  of  these  metres  "without  appear- 
ing to  imitate  the  original ;  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
metre  could  only  be  used  in  a  particular  way,  and  with 
a  particular  style.  Yet  the  Omar  has  been  extensively 
imitated. 

"  All  can  raise  the  tlower  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed." 

AVhat  FitzGerald  saw  in  Omar  was  rather  his  difler- 
ence  from  the  other  Oriental  poets  with  whom  he  was 
liimself  acquainted,  than  his  likeness  to  them.  While 
jnost  Eastern  poetry  tends  to  lose  itself  in  vague  im- 
agery, more  or  less  relevant  to  the  matter  in  hand, 
Omar,  he  thought,  had  a  cei'tain  concentration  of 
thought,  a  definite  conception  which  he  endeavoured  to 
indicate.     On  this  point  FitzGerald  wrote  to  Cowell : — 

"  I  shall  look  directly  for  the  passages  in  Omar  and  Hafiz 
which  you  refer  to,  and  clear  up,  though  I  scarce  ever  see  the 
Persian  Character  now.  I  suppose  you  would  think  it  a  dan- 
gerous thing  to  edit  Omar  ;  else,  who  so  proper  ?  Xay,  are 
you  not  the  oidy  Man  to  do  it  ?  And  he  certainly  is  wurth 
good    re-editiiiLT.      I    thought  him    from   the   iirsi    the    most 


112  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

remarkable  of  the  Persian  Poets  ;  and  you  keep  finding  out  in 
him  Evidences  of  logical  Fancy  which  I  had  not  dreamed  of. 
I  dare  say  these  logical  Riddles  are  not  his  best ;  but  they  are 
yet  eridences  of  a  Strength  of  mind  which  our  Persian  Friends 
rarely  exhibit,  I  think.  I  always  said  about  Cowley,  Donne, 
etc.,  whom  Johnson  calls  the  metaphysical  Poets,  that  their 
Yery  Quibbles  of  Fancy  showed  a  power  of  Logic  which  could 
follow  Fancy  through  such  remote  Analogies.  This  is  the  case 
with  Calderon's  Conceits  also.  I  doubt  I  have  given  but  a 
very  one-sided  version  of  Omar  ;  but  what  I  do  only  comes 
up  as  a  Bubble  to  the  Surface,  and  breaks ;  whereas  you,  with 
exact  Scholarship,  might  make  a  lasting  imjH'ession  of  such  an 
Author." 

Much  has  been  written  about  the  symbolism  of 
Omar.  Literary  persons,  more  careful  than  himself 
of  the  old  poet's  delicacy,  have  tried  to  prove  that 
the  imagery  of  the  poem,  like  that  of  the  Song  of 
Solomon,  is  of  a  spiritual  and  symbolic  character.  In 
one  sense,  indeed,  all  art  has  a  symbolical  side ;  a 
poem  and  a  picture  are  nothing  if  they  are  not  typical, 
if  they  are  not,  so  to  speak,  a  blank  cheque  upon  the 
emotions,  which  those  that  come  after  may  fill  up 
according  to  their  desires  and  their  emotional  capacity. 
But  just  as  the  veni  sponsa  de  libano,  veni,  coro- 
NABERis,  though  mystically  applied  by  the  high-minded 
to  the  invitation  of  Christ  to  his  Chiu-ch,  A\as  based 
upon  a  far  more  passionate,  if  less  exalted  dream ;  so 
it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  when  Omar  wrote  of  the 
joys  of  the  cup  and  the  scented  tresses  of  the  cypress- 
slender  minister  of  wine,  he  was  speaking  in  allegories 
of  remote  visions  and  spiritual  ecstasies.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  write  his  momentary  experiences,  perhaps  his 
dreams  were  emotionally  recollected,  looking  back  in 
his  wistful  age  upon  "  youth  and  strength  and  this 
delightful  M-orld."  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  Omar 
must  have  drunk  his  fill  of  bodily  delights ;  he  speaks 


V.  ]  WRITINGS— OJf^  7?  KHA  YYAM  113 

of  these  things  in  no  veiled  allegories,  but  even,  in 
stanzas  which  FitzGerald  shunned,  in  terms  of  unmis- 
takable grossness.  No  one  could  have  written  as 
Omar  who  had  not  felt  the  flush  of  the  juice  of  the 
vine  stir  and  excite  the  languid  thought,  as  the  return- 
ing tide  sets  afloat  the  fringes  of  the  seaweed.  No 
one  could  have  written  as  Omar  did  of  love  who  had 
not  thrilled  spell-bound  at  the  sight  of  some  beloved 
face  touching  into  life  those  hungering,  incommunicable 
dreams.  The  master  had  suffered  himself,  though  he 
pursued  his  lonely  way  past  those  sweet  visions,  out 
from  the  garden  with  its  rose-tMined  shelters  and 
bubbling  fountains  into  the  sand-ridged  desert  that 
lies  in  its  hot  desolation  all  about  the  sheltered  plea- 
saunce.  Like  the  author  of  Ecclesiastes,  who  had  seen 
"  the  emptiness  and  horror  of  the  dark  "  that  lay  so 
close  to  the  door  of  joy,  Omar  was  full  of  desolation 
at  the  bitter  mj'^stery.  But  unlike  the  author  of  Ecclesi- 
astes, unlike  the  Stoic  and  the  Christian  moralist, 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  preach  detachment.  lie  could 
not  adopt  the  view  that  because  these  delights  are 
transitory,  therefore  they  must  be  resolutely  avoided. 
Kather  he  clung  to  them,  in  the  spirit  of  the  later 
poet : — 

"  But  oh,  the  very  reason  ■why 
I  chisp  them,  is  because  they  die." 

That  these  things  should  be  so  sweet  and  yet  so  brief 
was  to  Omar,  as  to  FitzGerald,  the  heart  of  the 
mystery  ;  not  a  thought  to  be  banished  or  to  be  re- 
placed by  some  far-off  hope,  but  a  thought  to  be 
dealt  with,  to  be  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  to  be 
made  musical,  if  that  might  bo. 

"Did  I  not  once,"  wrot<!  the  author  of  the  above 
pathetic  lines,  as  he  sat  beside  a  summer  sea,  l)re.i.kiiig 
in  a  golden-sanded  bay,  "did  I  not  once — surely  1  did 

n 


114  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

— enjoy  like  a  lover  the  first  sight  of  a  sunny  bay  ? 
and  now  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  heartache."  And 
again,  after  "a  day  of  sad  and  kindly  partings,"  he 
wrote,  "  What  a  world  it  is  for  sorrow.  And  how  dull 
it  would  be  if  there  were  no  sorrow."  That  is  the 
mood  of  Omar,  and  that,  chastened  and  refined  by 
a  sweeter  and  more  generous  nature,  is  the  mood  of 
FitzGerald. 

Cowell,  writing  of  Omar  in  the  Calcutta  Heview, 
said  : — 

"  His  tetrastichs  are  filled  with  bitter  satires  of  the  sensu- 
ality and  hypocrisy  of  the  pretenders  to  sanctity,  but  he  did 
not  stop  there.  He  could  see  with  a  clear  eye  the  evil  and 
folly  of  the  charlatans  and  empirics  ;  but  he  was  blind  when 
he  turned  from  these,  to  deny  the  existence  of  the  soul's 
disease,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  the  possibility  of  a  cure.  Here, 
like  Lucretius,  he  cut  himself  loose  from  facts  ;  and  in  both 
alike  we  trace  the  unsatisfied  instincts, — the  dim  conviction 
that  their  wisdom  is  folly, — which  reflect  themselves  in  darker 
colours  in  the  misanthropy  and  despair,  which  cloud  their 
visions  of  life." 

But  FitzGerald  felt  that  Cowell  could  not  quite  put 
himself  in  line  with  the  thought  of  the  poem  : — 

"  You  see  all  his  beauty,"  he  wrote,  "  but  you  don't  feel 
with  him  in  some  respects  as  I  do." 

As  to  the  motif  oi  the  poem,  FitzGerald  himself  sums 
up  in  a  sad  and  tender  epigram,  as  far  as  so  evasive 
a  thing  can  be  summarised,  the  underlying  thought. 
In  1877,  sending  the  book  to  his  friend  Laurence, 
he  wrote  :  "  I  know  you  will  thank  me  (for  the  book), 
and  I  think  you  will  feel  a  sort  of  friste  Flaisir  in  it, 
as  others  besides  myself  have  felt.  It  is  a  desperate 
sort  of  thing,  unfortunately  at  the  bottom  of  all  thinking 
rne.n's  minds ;  but  made  Music  of." 

To   translate   that    exquisite    sentence    into    more 


v.]  WRlTimiS-OMAH  KHAYrAM  115 

scientific  and  harsher  terminology,  the  poem  is  pro- 
bably the  most  beautiful  and  stately  presentation  of 
Agnosticism  ever  made,  with  its  resultant  Epicurean- 
ism. Omar  does  not  go  to  the  wine-jar  only  that  he 
may  forget,  but  that  he  may  also  remember.  He  feeds 
on  honey-dew  and  drinks  the  milk  of  paradise  that 
he  may  banish  for  a  little  the  terror  of  the  unknown, 
the  bewildered  mystery  of  life,  the  pain,  the  shame, 
the  fear,  and  the  dark  shadow  that  nearer  or  further 
lies  across  the  road ;  thus  much  to  forget ;  and  then 
he  is,  perchance,  enabled  to  remember  the  sweet  days, 
the  spring  and  the  budding  rose;  to  remember  that 
though  the  beginning  and  the  end  are  dark,  yet  that 
the  God  of  Pain  and  Death  is  also  the  maker  of  the 
fair  world,  the  gracious  charm  of  voice  and  hand  and 
eye,  the  woven  tapestry  of  tree  and  meadow-grass,  the 
sunset  burning  red  behind  the  dark  tree-trunks  of  the 
grove,  the  voice  of  music,  the  song  of  the  bird,  the 
whisper  of  leaves,  the  murmur  of  the  hidden  stream — 
of  all  the  sights  and  sounds  that  fill  the  heart  full 
and  leave  it  yearning,  unsatisfied  with  the  pain  that  is 
itself  a  joy. 

And,  then,  in  such  a  mood  the  shadow  of  loss,  the 
memory  of  sweet  things  that  have  an  end,  the  sleep 
of  death,  tremble  into  music  too ;  and  are  like  the 
deep,  slow  pedal-notes  above  which  the  lighter  descant 
wings  its  way,  as  a  bird  that  flies  dipping  its  feet  in 
the  slow-stirring  wave. 

All  is  vanity ;  that  is  the  low  cry  of  the  tired  heart 
when  the  buoyant  strength  of  youth  dies  a^  ay,  and 
when  tlie  brave  shows  of  the  glittering  world,  the 
harsh  inspiriting  music  of  affairs,  the  ambition  to 
speak  and  strive,  to  sway  hearts  and  minds  or  destinies, 
fade  into  the  darkness  of  the  end.  Against  the  assaults 
of  this  nameless  fear  men  hold  out  what  shields  they 


116  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

can ;  the  shield  of  honour,  the  shield  of  labour,  and, 
best  of  all,  the  shield  of  faith.  But  there  are  some 
who  have  found  no  armour  to  help  them,  and  who  can 
but  sink  to  the  ground,  covering  their  face  beneath 
the  open  eye  of  heaven,  and  say  with  FitzGerald,  "  It 
is  He  that  hath  made  us,"  resigning  the  mystery  into 
the  hands  of  the  power  that  formed  us  and  bade  us  be. 
For  behind  the  loud  and  confident  voice  of  work  and 
politics  and  creeds  there  must  stili  lurk  the  thought 
that  whatever  aims  we  propose  to  ourselves,  though 
they  be  hallowed  with  centuries  of  endeavour  and  con- 
secration, we  cannot  know  what  awaits  us  or  what  we 
shall  be.  We  strive  to  believe  in  Justice  and  Mercy, 
in  love  and  purity  ;  and  nature,  which  is  still  the  work 
of  God,  gives  us  the  lie  a  hundred  times  over ;  till  the 
shrinking  soul  asks  itself,  "  Am  I  indeed  trying  to  be 
better,  purer,  more  just  than  the  God  who  made  me  ? 
Am  I  thus  forced  to  fall,  to  be  a  traitor  to  my  secret 
desire  for  virtue,  and  then  to  be  sternly  punished  for 
doing  what  I  had  not  the  strength  to  escape  ? "  Such 
thoughts  may  not  be  uplifting  or  inspiring,  but  they 
are  there ;  so  that  a  man  in  this  dark  valley  feels  him- 
self to  be,  indeed,  the  sport  of  a  vast  power  who  holds 
out  the  cup  of  joy  and  dashes  it  from  the  lip,  who 
makes  alike  the  way  of  the  saint  and  the  sinner  to 
be  hard. 

Perhaps  the  best  medicine  that  can  be  given  to  a 
spirit  thus  brought  face  to  face  with  the  hardest  and 
darkest  truth  is  that  he  should  fix  his  thought  firmly 
on  the  grace  and  beauty  so  abundantly  shed  abroad  in 
the  world.  Not  thus,  indeed,  can  the  whole  victory 
DC  won,  the  victory  of  the  troubled  spirit  that  can  say, 
"Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him";  but 
the  message  of  beauty  may  form  as  it  were  the  first 
firm  steps  by  which  the  soul  can  climb  a  little  way 


v.]  WRITINGS— O.VJi2  KHA  YYAm  117 

out  of  the  abyss.  The  peril  is  that  the  spirit  may  have 
no  strength  to  climb  further,  and  may  loiter  with  Omar 
in  the  wilderness,  greedy  of  transient  delights,  content 
with  the  strip  of  herbage  that  fringes  the  desert, 
putting  off  the  pilgrimage. 

It  is  not  to  be  feared  that  this  subtle  murmuring 
voice  out  of  the  East  will  win  any  notable  influence  in 
the  busy  world  of  the  West.  Yet  it  is  strange  how 
we  have  transmuted  that  other  mightier  Eastern  voice, 
the  message  of  the  Gospel,  to  serve  our  own  ideals  and 
to  justify  what  it  set  out  to  condemn. 


CHAPTER   VI 

PLAYS — EUPHIiANOR —  LETTEllS 

Of  the  plays  to  the  translation  of  which  FitzGerald 
devoted  so  much  time  and  thought,  there  is  much  that 
might  be  said.  But  the  plain  truth  is,  however  melan- 
choly a  confession  it  is  to  make,  that  they  are  not 
really  worth  a  very  critical  examination.  We  need 
not  exactly  regret  the  labour  he  spent  upon  them, 
because  it  was  through  such  exercises  that  FitzGerald 
gained  the  command  of  stately  diction  that  enabled 
him  to  seize  the  one  supreme  chance  that  fell  in  his 
way.  But  they  are  nothing  more  than  good  and 
careful  literary  work ;  here  and  there  rising,  in  certain 
passages  and  single  lines,  into  stateliness  and  beauty. 
Any  one  who  is  interested  in  FitzGerald  is  glad  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  seeing  how  his  mind  worked ; 
but  the  plays  have  no  permanent  or  intrinsic  merit  such 
as  belongs  to  the  Omar  and  the  Letters. 

FitzGerald's  theory  of  such  versions  as  he  made  is 
best  given  in  his  own  words,  in  the  Preface  which  he 
prefixed  to  the  Agamemnon. 

"  Thus,"  he  writes,  "...  this  grand  play,  which,  to  the 
scholar  and  the  poet,  lives,  breathes  and  moves  in  the  dead 
language,  has  hitherto  seemed  to  me  to  drag  and  stifle  under 
conscientious  translation  into  the  living  ;  that  is  to  saj,  to 
have  lost  that  which  I  think  the  drama  can  least  afford  to  lose 
all  the  world  over.  And  so  it  was  that,  hopeless  of  succeeding 
where  as  good  versifiers,  and  better  scholars,  seemed  to  me  to 
have  failed,  I  came  first  to  break  the  bounds  of  Greek 
118 


CUAP.  vi.|    FLAYS— EUPHfiANOB—LETTERa  Hi) 

Tragedy  ;  then  to  swerve  from  the  Master's  footsteps  ;  and  so, 
one  licence  drawing  on  another  to  make  all  of  a  piece,  arrived 
at  the  present  anomalous  conclusion.  If  it  has  succeeded  in 
shaping  itself  into  a  distinct,  consistent  and  animated  Whole, 
through  which  the  reader  can  follow  without  halting,  and  not 
without  accelerating  interest  from  beginning  to  end,  he  will 
perhaps  excuse  my  acknowledged  transgressions,  and  will  not 
disdain  the  Jade  which  has  carried  him  so  far  so  well  till  he 
finds  himself  mounted  on  a  Thorough -bred  whose  thunder- 
clothed  neck  and  long-resounding  pace  shall  better  keep  up 
with  the  Original." 

His  general  principle  of  translation  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Well,  I  have  not  turned  over  Johnson's  Dictionary  for  the 
last  month,  having  got  hold  of  ^schylus.  I  think  I  want  to 
turn  his  Trilogy  into  what  shall  be  readable  English  Verse  ;  a 
thing  I  have  always  thought  of,  but  was  frightened  at  the 
Chorus.  So  I  am  now  ;  I  can't  think  them  so  fine  as  People 
talk  of :  they  are  terribly  maimed  ;  and  all  such  Lyrics 
require  a  better  Poet  than  I  am  to  set  forth  in  English.  But 
the  better  Poets  won't  do  it ;  and  I  cannot  find  one  readable 
translation.  I  shall  (if  I  make  one)  make  a  very  free  one  ; 
not  for  Scholars,  but  for  those  who  are  ignorant  of  Greek,  and 
who  (so  far  as  I  have  seen)  have  never  been  induced  to  learn 
it  by  any  Translations  yet  made  of  these  Plays.  I  think  I  shall 
become  a  bore,  of  the  Bowring  order,  by  all  this  Translation  : 
liut  it  amuses  me  without  any  labour,  and  I  really  think  I 
have  the  faculty  of  making  some  things  readable  which  others 
have  hitherto  left  unreadable." 

But  the  result  of  this  principle  has  been  that  Fitz- 
Gerald  gives  but  little  idea  of  the  original.  Half  the 
charm,  so  to  speak,  of  these  ancient  human  documents 
is  their  authenticity.  Not  only  the  archaic  form,  the 
statuesque  conventionality  of  tlie  Grt>ck  stage,  the 
traditions  of  a  once-living  art,  are  sacrificed  ;  but,  what 
is  more  important  still,  the  very  spirit  of  Greek 
Tragedy,  the  unshrinking  gaze  into  the  darkest  horrors 


120  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

of  life,  the  dreadful  insistence  of  Fate,  forcing  men  to 
tread  unwillingly  in  rougli  and  stony  paths — these  are 
thrown  aside.  And  thus  the  force,  the  grim  tension, 
which  are  of  the  essence  of  Greek  tragedy  are  re- 
placed by  a  species  of  gentle  dignity,  which  leaves 
the  stiffness  of  movement  without  the  compensating 
strength,  and  the  austere  frigidity  without  the  antique 
spirit.  A  kind  of  flowing  and  even  Shakespearian 
diction  takes  the  place  of  the  gorgeousness  of  the 
original,  but  without  any  of  the  modern  flexibility  of 
handling. 

It  seems  that  there  are  two  possibilities  open  to  the 
translator :  the  first,  to  make  a  literal  and  dignified 
version,  which  is  probably  better  in  prose,  of  the  kind 
of  which  Sir  Richard  Jebb  has  produced  masterly 
specimens.  There  indeed  you  are  probably  as  near  to 
the  ancient  Greek  as  without  a  knowledge  of  the 
language  you  can  get.  Or  else,  to  produce  a  frankly 
modern  play,  just  following  the  lines  of  the  ancient 
drama,  and  endeavouring  to  represent  movement  and 
emotion  rather  than  language.  FitzGerald  has  fallen 
between  these  two  possibilities.  The  plays  are  frigid 
but  not  archaic ;  timid  where  the  ancient  plays  were 
bold;  gentlemanly  where  the  originals  were  noble. 
They  are  as  like  Greek  plays  as  the  Eglinton  Tourna- 
ment was  like  a  mediaeval  Joust ;  a  revival  in  which 
the  spirit,  the  only  thing  which  justified  and  enlivened 
the  ancient  sport,  has  somehow  evaporated. 

In  the  version  of  the  (Edipus,  FitzGerald  alloAvs  him- 
self great  licence,  but  in  the  Agamemnon  his  method  is 
still  more  luxuriant.  For  instance,  when  the  Herald 
from  the  host  describes  the  miseries  of  the  life  of  the 
camp,  he  says  : — 

"  Not  the  mere  course  and  casualty  of  war. 
Alarum,  March,  Buttle,  and  such  hard  knocks 


VI.  J  TLAYS—E  UPHBANOR— LKTTERS  121 

As  foe  with  foe  expects  to  giveand  take; 

But  all  the  complement  of  miseries 

That  go  to  swell  a  long  campaign's  account, 

Cramm'd  close  aboard  the  ships,  hard  bed,  hard  board  : 

Or  worse  perhaps  while  foraging  ashore 

In  winter  time  ;  when,  if  not  from  the  walls, 

Pelted  from  Heav'n  by  Day,  to  couch  by  Night 

Between  the  falling  dews  and  rising  damps 

That  elf 'd  the  locks,  and  set  the  body  fast 

With  cramp  and  ague  ;  or,  to  mend  the  matter 

Good  mother  Ida  from  her  winter  top 

Flinging  us  down  a  coverlet  of  snow. 

Or  worst  perhaps  in  Summer,  toiling  in 

The  bloody  harvest-field  of  torrid  sand. 

When  not  an  air  stirr'd  the  fierce  Asian  noon 

And  even  the  sea  sleep-sicken'd  in  his  bed." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  is  a  fine  passage  But 
what  is  the  source  of  it  1 — 

"  For  if  I  were  to  tell  of  the  toils  and  the  hard  quarters, 
the  narrow  ill-strewn  berths — nay,  what  day-long  privation 
too  did  we  not  have  to  bewail  1  and  then  again  on  land — where 
danger  was  ever  at  hand,  for  we  couched  close  by  the  walls — 
from  heaven  and  earth  alike  the  meadow  dews  down-drizzling 
crept,  the  constant  rotting  of  our  raiment,  breeding  evil 
vermin  in  our  very  hair  ;  and  if  one  were  to  tell  of  the  winter 
that  slew  the  birds  themselves,  the  intolerable  cold  that  the 
snows  of  Ida  brought,  or  the  heat,  when  the  unstirred  ocean 
fell  and  slept  in  his  windless  bed."  ' 

Perhaps  it  is  ill  to  quarrel  with  a  method  dclibcra'.cly 
adopted ;  but  it  will  be  seen  that  it  ends  in  a  mere 
wrapping  up  of  the  ancient  simplicities  in  an  em- 
broidered modern  robe  ;  one  who  studies  FitzGerald's 
Agamemnon  may  do  so  for  its  own  sake,  but  he  must 
not  think  that  he  is  getting  near  either  to  the  spirit  or 
the  form  of  the  original.  It  is  idle  to  speculate  to 
what  extent  Fit/A lerald  liimself  understood  the  Greek. 
'  .(;/.,  560-571. 


122  EDWARD  FITZGKRALD  [chap. 

Even  in  the  passage  above  quoted  there  are  clear  indica- 
tions that  he  did  not  even  penetrate  the  actual  meaning ; 
but  on  his  principle,  he  might  defend  himself  on  the 
ground  that  he  conceived  the  harshness  of  the  images 
to  be  unsuited  for  modern  taste. 

This  is  still  more  noticeable  in  the  lyrical  translations 
of  the  choruses  of  the  Agamemnon,  in  which  FitzGerald 
seems  to  be  hobbling  in  fetters,  dealing  with  ideas  and 
words  that  have  no  native  existence  in  our  own  lan- 
guage except  as  pedantic  attempts  to  represent  in  an 
English  form  thoughts  which  have  no  real  counterpart 
in  English  thought.  This  terrible  jargon,  well-known 
to  schoolmasters,  this  attempt  to  transvocalise,  so  to 
speak,  Greek  expressions,  and  to  squeeze  the  juice  out 
of  the  ancient  language,  strikes  dreariness  into  the 
mind.  Such  a  passage  as  the  following  from  one  of  the 
grandest  choruses  will  suffice  to  illustrate  my  meaning  : — 

"  But  now  to  be  resolved,  whether  indeed 

Those  fires  of  Night  spoke  truly,  or  mistold 
To  cheat  a  doating  woman  ;  for  behold 
Advancing  from  the  shore  with  solemn  speed, 
A  Herald  from  tlie  Fleet,  his  footsteps  roll'd 
In  dust,  Haste's  thirsty  consort,  but  his  brow 
Check-shadow'd  with  the  nodding  Olive-bough  ; 
Who  shall  interpret  us  the  speechless  sign 
Of  the  fork'd  tongue  that  preys  upon  the  pine  ? " 

Who  indeed  ?  This  passage  is  like  a  turbid  stream 
in  flood.  It  is  muddy  with  Greek,  it  bears  Greek 
particles,  like  river-wrack,  floating  on  its  surface.  But 
it  is  neither  Greek  nor  English.  It  can  give  no  sense 
of  pleasure  to  an  English  reader ;  and  to  any  one  who 
can  appreciate  the  original,  it  only  brings  a  dim  sense 
of  pain. 

The  two  versions  of  the  (Edipus  are  even  less  satis- 
factory than  the  Agamei/inon ;  for  there  the  serene  and 


VI.  I  TLXYS- EUPHRANOB— LETTERS  123 

even  flow  of  Sophocles'  diction  is  converted  into  what 
it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  from  duluess.  And  here 
indeed  FitzGerald  has  taken  a  licence  which  it  is  hard 
to  condone ;  for  he  has  transplanted  entire  into  his 
pages  the  translation  of  the  choruses  by  Robert  Potter 
(1721-1804),  in  a  mellifluous  classical  verse,  of  the 
school  of  Gray.  "As  I  thought,"  he  writes,  "  I  should 
do  no  Ijetter  with  the  Choruses  than  old  Potter,  I 
have  left  them,  as  you  see,  in  his  hands,  though 
worthy  of  a  better  interpreter  than  either  of  us." 
And  he  has  gone  further  still  by  practically  omitting 
two  of  the  principal  characters  in  the  two  plays, 
Creon  almost  entirely  in  the  first  and  Ismene  entirely 
in  the  second,  for  no  better  reason  than  that  the 
intrusion  of  characters  whom  he  has  the  misfortune 
to  dislike  had  appeared  to  him  to  be  inartistic. 
And  this  is,  I  think,  a  really  serious  l>lot ;  because 
it  is  the  very  dissimilarity  of  the  Greek  point  of 
view  to  our  own,  the  difl'erent  artistic  standard,  that 
contribute  to  give  these  plays  their  bewildering 
value.  The  whole  essence  of  the  culture  which  depends 
upon  familiarising  oneself  with  the  best  products  of  the 
human  spirit,  is  that  one  should  try  to  put  oneself  in 
line  with  the  old.  To  admiie  a  Greek  play  for  the 
modernity  which  may  be  found  in  it,  is,  I  believe,  to 
misapprehend  the  situation  altogether. 

"With  regard  to  the  omission  of  the  character  of 
Creon  in  two  of  the  three  scenes  where  he  appears  in 
the  Qidipm  in  Thebes  (Ti/rannus),  it  may  stand  as  a 
crucial  instance  of  FitzGerald's  methods.  In  the 
second  scene  CEdipus  overwhelms  Creon  in  a  ground- 
less charge  of  ti'eason ;  but  in  spite  of  this  Creon 
appeal's,  in  the  thii'd  scene,  in  a  mood  of  grave  pity  and 
magnanimous  forbearance.  He  expresses  a  deep  and 
sincere  sympathy  for  the  unhappy  king ;  he  receives 


124  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

ill  a  spirit  of  kindly  benevolence  the  pathetic  charge  of 
CEdipns  that  his  unhappy  daughters  may  be  cared  for. 
He  will  not  even  bring  himself  to  acquiesce  in  the 
miserable  man's  entreaties  that  he  may  be  banished 
from  the  land,  but  says  gravely  that  the  oracle  must 
decide.  Thus  he  plays  a  vital  and  integral  part  in  the 
play,  and  the  contrast  of  his  calm  yet  sorrowing  dignity 
with  the  terrible  self-accusation  of  the  ill-fated  CEdipus 
is  not  only  intentional,  but  a  lofty  piece  of  art. 

FitzGerald  in  the  prefatory  letter  to  the  CEdipus 
excuses  himself  airily  for  his  omission,  by  saying  that 
from  all  this  "little  results  except  to  show  that  the 
Creon  of  this  Play  (the  Tyrannus)  proves  himself  by 
his  temperate  self-defence,  and  subsequent  forbearance 
toward  his  accuser,  very  unlike  the  Creon  of  the  two 
after  Tragedies  "  (the  Antigone  and  the  CEdipus  Colaneus). 
But  the  defence  would  only  be  valid  if  FitzGerald  had 
thrown  the  plot  of  the  CEdipus  overboard,  and  con- 
structed a  play  of  his  own  on  the  same  plot.  The 
play  in  FitzGerald's  hands  simply  ceases  to  represent 
the  original. 

AVith  regard  to  the  Calderon  plays  we  are  on  very 
mucli  the  same  ground.  Calderon  was  essentially  a 
lyrical  poet,  and  without  being  ungenerous  to  his  art 
it  may  be  doubted  whether,  with  all  his  mastery  of 
ingenious  stage-craft,  he  was  really  altogether  at  home 
in  dramatic  form. 

However  indulgently  one  may  try  to  judge  Fitz- 
Gerald's versions  of  Calderon,  they  cannot  be  reckoned 
among  his  literary  successes.  It  is  probable  that 
FitzGerald  did  not  really  understand  Calderon,  and 
it  is  not  unfair  to  say  that  we  have  here  a  marked 
instance  of  FitzGerald's  friendships  biassing  his  studies. 
It  was  no  doubt  the  influence  of  Cowell  that  turned 
his  mind  definitely  to  Calderon.     It  is  probable  that 


VI.]  FLAYS— EUPHRANOB-LKTTEnS  125 

Cowell  did  not  introduce  FitzGerald  to  Calderon, 
though  he  undoubtedly  blew  the  smouldering  ashes 
to  a  flame.  England  was  full  of  Spanish  liberals 
from  1823  to  1833.  Archbishop  Trench  was  a  trans- 
lator of  Calderon,  and  Tennyson  mentions  Calderon 
in  a  suppressed  stanza  of  The  Palace  of  Art ;  so  that 
it  is  probable  that  Calderon  was  not  unknown  in 
FitzGerald's  Cambridge  circle. 

FitzGerald  can  hardly  have  cared  instinctively  for 
the  Spanish  dramatist,  for  it  is  impossible  to  conceive 
two  temperaments  that  Avere  more  radically  unlike. 
Calderon  was  a  man  of  exemplary  virtue  ;  but  he  was  a 
courtier  to  the  fingers'  ends.  He  enjoyed  the  splendid 
pageants,  the  gracious  shows  of  life,  and  was  a  master 
of  the  arts  of  courtly  living.  What  may  be  called 
his  "profane"  plays  Avere  chiefly  written  to  please 
Philip  IV.,  and  to  be  acted  at  court  performances. 
The  plays — axitos,  as  they  are  called — with  a  religious 
or  "sacramental"  motive^  belong  to  a  much  higher 
order  of  genius.  All  this  was  entirely  antipathetic  to 
FitzGerald.  Calderon  was  conventional,  magnificent, 
worldly-minded,  with  a  background  of  mysticism. 
FitzGerald  hated  conventionality  in  every  form,  clung 
to  the  simple  and  retired  life,  feared  and  hated  the 
din  of  the  great  glittering  world.  Again,  where  Cal- 
deron was  mystical,  FitzGerald  was  agnostic.  It  is 
surely  significant  that  in  the  1853  volume,  containing 
versions  of  six  of  Calderon's  plays,  FitzGerald  admits 
that,  with  the  exception  of  The  Mayor  of  Zahvn^a 
(which  is  in  reality  a  play  of  Lope's  recast),  none  of 
Calderon's  masterpieces  are  attempted.  A  man  Avho 
could  l>cgin  with  the  inferior  works  of  the  author  he 

'  The  auto  is  a  species  of  mystical  or  allegorical  play,  based 
oil  the  inedi;cval  Mystery  plays,  aud  with  the  Euchaii.st  for 
7noti/. 


126  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

was  translating  could  not  have  been  greatly  in  earnest 
about  his  task.  He  did  afterwards  attempt  two  of 
the  undoubted  masterpieces,  The  Mighty  Magician  and 
Beware  of  Smooth  Water;  but  these  were  an  afterthought. 

Again,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  Calderon  was 
a  very  artificial  writer,  and  belonged  to  an  extremely 
definite  school.  He  abounds  in  preciosities  and  what 
may  be  called  affectations  both  of  maimer  and  of 
thought.  In  the  first  place  he  is  what  would  be  called 
in  English  "  Euphuistic  " ;  his  style  is  full  of  audacities 
and  conceits,  and  of  subtle  refinements  of  thought. 
These  are  far  from  being  the  best  part  of  Calderon ; 
but  the  texture  of  his  writings  is  so  impregnated  l)y 
them  that  they  may  be  held  to  be  absolutely  essential 
to  his  style.  FitzGerald  omits  and  compresses,  with 
the  result  that  the  airy  grace  and  the  fine  elegance 
disappear;  some  of  the  poetry  remains,  but  it  is 
transposed  into  a  different  key  ;  it  is  as  when  a  bass 
sings  a  rearranged  air  intended  for  a  tenor ;  it  is 
quiet  and  homely  instead  of  lustrous  and  brilliant. 
The  result  is  that  no  one  could  really  gain  any  idea 
of  the  characteristic  manner  of  Calderon  from  Fitz- 
Gerald's  version. 

FitzGerald  thus  makes  no  pretence  aljout  the  matter ; 
he  says  frankly  that  he  omitted  these  things  because 
he  did  not  care  for  them.  But  when  we  remember 
that  Calderon  cared  for  them,  and  that  the  whole 
(Spanish  nation  cared  for  them,  and  that  they  repre- 
sent an  unbroken  literar}'  tradition  of  two  centuries 
and  a  half,  the  confession  is  tantamount  to  saying 
that  FitzGerald  did  not  really  care  for  Calderon.  It 
remains  then  that  by  getting  rid  of  what  he  called 
bombast,  and  recklessly  throwing  overlward  unfamiliar 
idioms,  FitzGerald  is  really  shirking  his  most  formid- 
able difficulties. 


VI.]  FLAYS— EUPHRAXOR—LKTTEHS  127 

As  a  rule  he  docs  not  actually  interpolate  much, 
but  rather  touches  up  the  lines  l)y  adding  epithets 
and  adverbs,  doing  what  Gray  called  "  sticking  a  flower 
in  the  buttonhole." 

It  is  strange  that  FitzGerald  was  able  to  do  the 
very  thing  for  Omar  that  he  could  not  do  for  Calderon  : 
to  seize  and  represent  and  even  add  intensity  to  the 
very  essence  of  the  writer.  But  though  Calderon  has 
been  called  by  so  fine  a  critic  as  Lowell  an  Arab  soul 
in  Spanish  feathers,  it  is  a  misapprehension.  There 
is  nothing  Oriental  about  Calderon.  He  is  a  Euro- 
pean, a  modern,  one  of  ourselves  ;  and  it  was  precisely 
with  the  modern  spirit  that  FitzGerald  was  not  in 
sympathy,  whereas  he  was  to  a  considerable  extent 
in  sympathy  with  the  Oriental  spirit.  Agai7i,  the 
variety  of  metrical  forms  used  in  the  Spanish  drama 
is  remarkable.  Calderon  varies  his  measures  with 
great  skill  and  frequency,  never  sinking  to  prose;  and 
thus  the  effect  of  the  blank  verse  with  occasional  rhyme 
endings,  interspersed  with  a  few  lyrical  passages  and 
even  many  passages  of  plain  prose,  employed  by  Fitz- 
(Terald  is  misleading  and  monotonous.  Shelley's 
version  of  the  Magico  Prodigioso  is  far  moi-e  Calder- 
onian  than  anything  in  FitzGerald,  and  proves  that  to 
represent  Calderon  in  English  was  not  an  altogether 
impossible  task. 

It  may  be  noted  that  FitzGerald's  knowledge  of 
Spanish  was  very  limited.  And  again,  it  is  dear 
that  FitzGerald  is  very  luisurc  about  quantities,  and 
that  the  accent  shifts,  in  the  proper  names  he  uses 
from  syllable  to  syllable  in  a  perplexing  way.  This 
shows  that  he  was  iiot  really  very  familiar  with  the 
language ;  and  lastly,  it  a]>pears  that  he  had  frequent 
recourse  to  his  dictionaiy  even  when  reading  Cer- 
Tii,ntes.       If     this    was    so    with    Cervante?,    it^  must 


128  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

have  been  far  more  the  case  "with  Calderon,  whose 
vocabulary  is  much  richer  and  more  complex.  But 
the  conclusion  that  is  forced  upon  us  is  that  Fitz- 
Gerald's  equipment  in  Spanish  was  such  as  to  make 
it  impossible  for  him  to  be  an  adequate  interpreter 
of  a  writer  both  intricate  and  difficult  in  a  language 
in  which  he  was  never  really  more  than  an  enthu- 
siastic learner.  These  liberties  and  licences  no  doubt 
account  for  the  very  unfavourable  review  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Athetueum'^  of  FitzGerald's  translation. 
The  reviewer  was  John  Rutter  Chorley,  one  of  the 
best  Spanish  scholars  that  England  has  ever  produced. 
This  review  disconcerted  FitzGerald  extremely;  but 
Chorley  was  not  quite  just  to  his  victim.  Indeed, 
in  an  extract  professedly  quoted  from  FitzGerald, 
Chorley,  besides  making  two  misquotations,  actually 
puts  "ZALAMCA  {su)"  thereby  giving  the  impression 
of  the  grossest  carelessness  on  FitzGerald's  part. 
The  original,  it  is  true,  is  clumsily  printed,  so 
that  the  letter  c  often  resembles  the  letter  e ;  yet 
in    this    case    FitzGerald    gave    the    word    correctly, 

ZALAMEA. 

The  language  employed  by  FitzGerald  in  the  trans- 
lation is  a  stately  and  flowing  modern  blank  verse. 
There  is  no  sign  that  he  aimed  at  imitating  any 
special  English  writer.  There  is  an  occasional  ten- 
dency to  the  use  of  rather  recondite  words  and  com- 
binations such  as  "thrasonical,"  "mis-arrogates,"  but 
as  a  rule  he  evidently  tries  to  avoid  anything  that  is 
unusual  or  bizarre.  It  is  difficult,  with  the  space  at 
my  command,  to  give  any  idea  of  the  style  employed, 
but  I  will  quote  one  passage,  where  it  is  obvious  that 
great  pains  have  been  taken  with  the  Aversion,  from 
Such   Stuff  as   Dreams  are  made  of.      Segismund,    the 

^  September  10,  1853,  p.  10G3,  No.  1350,  wrongly  indexed. 


VI.]  VLAYS— EUPHU  Axon— LhYriK^  129 

King  of  Poland's  son,  has  drunk  the  potion,  and,  still 
fevered  by  the  draught,  soliloquises : — 

"  Seoismund  (within).  .  .  .  Forbear  !     I  stifle  with  your 
perfume  !     Cease 
Your  crazy  salutations  !     Peace,  I  say — 
Begone,  or  let  me  go,  ere  I  go  mad 
With  all  this  babble,  mummery,  and  glare. 
For  I  am  growing  dangerous — Air  !  room  !  air  ! 

{He  rushes  in.     Music  ceases.) 
Oh,  but  to  save  this  reeling  brain  from  Avreck 
With  its  bewildered  senses  I 

(TTe  coiners  his  eyes  for  a  while.) 

What !     Ev'n  now 
That  Babel  left  behind  me,  but  my  eyes 
Pursued  by  the  same  glamour,  that — unless 
Alike  bewitch'd  too — the  confederate  sense 
Vouches  for  palpable  :  bright-shining  floors 
That  ring  hard  answer  back  to  the  stamp'd  heel. 
And  shoot  up  airy  columns  mar])le-C()!d, 
That,  as  they  climl),  break  into  golden  le;if 
And  capital,  till  they  embrace  aloft 
In  clustering  flower  and  fruitage  over  walls 
Hung  with  such  purple  curtain  as  the  West 
Fringes  with  such  a  gold  ;  or  over-laid 
With  sanguine-glowing  semblances  of  men, 
Each  in  his  all  but  living  action  busied, 
Or  from  the  wall  they  look  from,  with  tix'd  eyes 
Pursuing  me  ;  and  one  most  strange  of  all 
That,  as  I  pass'd  the  crystal  on  the  wall, 
Look'd  from  it — left  it — and  as  I  return, 
lieturns,  and  looks  me  face  to  face  again — 
Unless  some  false  reflection  of  my  brain, 
The  outward  semblance  of  myself. — Myself  ? 
IIow  know  that  tawdry  shadow  for  myself, 
]]ut  that  it  moves  as  I  move  ;  lifts  his  band 
With  mine  ;  each  motion  echoing  so  close 
The  immediate  suggestion  of  the  will 
In  which  myself  I  recogni.se — ?vlyseli  !— 
What,  this  fantastic  Segismund  tii''  same 

I 


130  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Who  last  night,  as  for  all  his  nights  before, 

Lay  down  to  sleep  in  wolf-skin  on  the  ground 

In  a  black  turret  which  the  wolf  howl'd  round, 

And  woke  again  upon  a  golden  bed, 

Round  which  as  clouds  about  a  rising  sun. 

In  scarce  less  glittering  caparison, 

Gather'd  gay  shapes  that,  underneath  a  breeze 

Of  music,  handed  him  upon  their  knees 

The  Avine  of  heaven  in  a  cup  of  gold, 

And  still  in  soft  melodious  under-song 

Hailing  me  Prince  of  Poland  ! — '  Segismund,' 

They  said,  '  Our  Prince  !     The  Prince  of  Poland  ! '  and 

Again,  '  Oh,  welcome,  Avelcome  to  his  own, 

Our  own  Prince  Segismund.' " 

Though  it  is  plain  that  much  literary  skill  has  been 
lavished  on  such  lines  as  these,  it  must  be  confessed, 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  that  the  plays  cannot  take  high 
rank  as  art.  We  feel  that  it  is  neither  FitzGerald  nor 
Calderon.  It  is  accomplished  and  stately,  but  there  is 
a  want  of  dramatic  sympathy,  a  want  of  fire  and  glow 
for  which  no  execution,  however  careful,  can  atone. 

We  must  now  turn  to  the  only  deliberately  planned 
and  elaborately  executed  piece  of  prose  which  Fitz- 
Gerald carried  out. 

The  Euphranor  is  a  pretty  piece  of  delicate  writing 
cast  in  the  mould  of  a  dialogue  of  Plato.  The  dramatis 
persoiKB  are  four  undergraduates,  Euphranor,  Lexilogus, 
Lycion,  and  Phidippus,  and  the  narrator,  who  is  a 
physician  supposed  to  be  practising  at  Cambridge, 
nearly  twice  the  age  of  his  companions.  He  is  reading 
a  medical  treatise  in  his  room  at  Cambridge,  when 
Euphranor,  a  somewhat  shadowy  enthusiast,  bursts  in 
upon  him  and  insists  upon  his  going  by  boat  with  him 
to  Chesterton.  They  take  with  them  Lexilogus,  a 
reclusive  scholar,  and  the  talk  falls  upon  Chivalry,  the 


VI.]  PLAYS— ^C^/V/i?  J. VO/?— LETTERS  131 

subject  being  suggested  by  Kenelm  Digby's  Godrfrulus,^ 
a  copy  of  which  Euphranor  carries  with  him.  They 
reach  Chesterton.  Lexilogus  goes  off  to  call  i;pon  an 
elderly  relative  who  lives  there.  The  Protagonist  and 
Euphranor  go  to  the  Three  Tuns  Inn,  where  they  fall 
in  with  Lycion,  a  young  man  of  fashion,  who  is  some- 
thing of  a  fop.  They  talk  discursively,  till  Lycion 
goes  away  to  play  billiards.  The  others  go  for  a 
walk,  and  fall  in  with  Phidippus,  who  is  riding,  a 
cheerful,  wholesome-minded,  brisk  young  sportsman. 
They  dine  together,  play  boAvls,  and  walk  home  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening.  The  sentiment  that  binds 
together  the  somewhat  incongruous  companions  is  that 
all  the  party,  except  Lycion,  are  Yorkshiremen. 

The  talk  itself  ranges  discursively  from  chivalry  to 
education,  corporal  punishment,  and  on  to  literature  ; 
the  exact  motif  is  somewhat  difficult  to  disentangle.  It 
reminds  one  of  the  criticism  recorded  to  have  been 
made  by  Jowett  on  the  essay  read  to  him  by  an  en- 
thusiastic undergraduate.  Jowett  hcai'd  it  in  silence  ; 
the  subject,  it  must  be  said,  was  some  precise  one,  such 
as  the  Eleatic  .School  of  Philosophy ;  but  the  writer 
had  made  the  mistake  of  imagining  that  anything 
which  came  into  his  mind  was  relevant  to  the  question 
under  discussion.  When  the  shrill  tide  of  uninter- 
rupted eloquence  died  away,  Jowett  said  drily,  "I  do 
not  observe  that  you  have  been  following  any  ])artieular 
line  of  thought." 

The  same  impression  prevails  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  Euphranor ;  but  it  may  be  said  generally  that  an 
attempt  is  made  to  anive  at  a  definition  of  the  well- 
balanced  and  well-proportioned  man,  and  of  the  value 
of  physical  strength  and  athletics  in  counterbalancing 
an  undue  amount  of  sensibility  and  imaginativeness. 
'  The  tirst  part  of  Tlf,  Broad  Stone  of  Jfonoitr. 


132  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Lycion  and  Phidippus  seem  to  be  introduced  as  types. 
Lycion  is  intended,  I  believe,  to  be  a  figure  resembling 
Alcibiades,  -where  the  generous  and  natural  impulses 
of  youth  are  vitiated  by  indolence  and  foppishness. 
Phidippus,  who  is  meant  to  l)e  the  most  admirable 
character  in  the  dialogue,  is  the  simple-hearted  and 
honest  type  of  country  gentleman,  in  whom  the 
physical  side  overbalances  the  intellectual.  He  was 
confessedly  drawn  from  FitzGerald's  friend,  W.  K. 
Browne.  Lexilogus  is  no  doubt  a  type  of  a  nature 
where  there  is  an  over-preponderance  of  the  intellectual 
element ;  but  he  is  represented  as  a  humble-minded  and 
ingenuous  person.  Euphranor  is,  of  course,  the  hero, 
impulsive,  ardent,  and  impatient ;  while  the  Doctor  acts 
as  a  kind  of  genial  and  elderly  moderator. 

But  the  characters  do  not  sufiiciently  reveal  them- 
selves in  their  talk,  and  the  dramatic  interest  is  small. 
The  conversation  is  a  little  heavy,  somewhat  man- 
neriscd,  and  neither  quite  idealistic  or  realistic  enough. 
One  feels  that  the  impatience  of  Lycion,  who  with- 
draws from  the  talk  in  favour  of  a  game  of  billiards,  is 
justified.  "  If  I  can't  help  being,"  he  says  with  Platonic 
petulance,  "  the  very  fine  Fellow  whom  I  think  you  were 
reading  about,  I  want  to  know  what  is  the  use  of  writ- 
ing books  about  it  for  my  edification."  The  whole 
tone  is  academical  and  frigid,  and  even  the  pleasantries, 
which  are  carefully  interspersed,  are  somewhat  in  the 
style  of  Mr.  Barlow.  "It  is  not  easy,'"'  FitzGrerald 
wrote  to  Cowell  when  he  was  at  work  on  the  Euphranor, 
"  to  keep  to  good  dialectic,  and  yet  keep  up  the  dis- 
jected sway  of  natural  conversation.  .  .  .  Any  such 
trials  of  one's  own  show  one  the  art  of  such  dialogues 
as  Plato's,  where  the  process  is  so  logical  and  conversa- 
tional at  once.  .  .  .  They  remain  the  miracles  of  that 
Art  to  this  da  v." 


VI.]  VLAYS- EUPNJiA  NOR— LETTERS  133 

His  own  feeling  a})out  the  book  is  well  recorded  in 
another  letter  to  Cowell : — 

"Not  but  I  think  the  Tnith  is  told  :  only,  a  Truth  every- 
one knows  !  And  told  in  a  shape  of  Dialotjue  I'eally  something 
Platonic  :  but  I  doubt  rather  affectedly  too.  However,  such 
a,s  it  is,  I  send  it  you.  I  remember  being  anxious  about  it 
twenty  years  ago,  because  I  thought  it  was  the  Truth  (as  if  my 
telling  it  could  mend  the  matter  I) ;  and  I  cannot  but  think 
that  the  Generation  that  has  grown  up  in  these  twenty  years 
has  not  profited  by  the  Fifty  Thousand  Copies  of  this  great 
Mork  I '' 

At  the  same  time  there  are  pleasant  touches  of 
natural  description  throughout,  such  as  "  the  new- 
shaven  expanse  of  grass,"  when  they  embark  in  the 
Backs,  "  the  Chestnut  ...  in  full  fan,  and  leaning 
down  bis  white  cones  over  the  sluggish  curi'cnt,  which 
seems  fitter  for  the  slow  merchandise  of  coal,  than  to 
wash  the  walls  and  How  through  the  groves  of  Aca- 
deme."' And,  again,  there  is  the  concluding  passage 
of  the  dialogue,  so  often  quoted  l)y  those  who  praise 
the  little  book  that  one  is  disposed  to  wonder  whether 
the  reputation  for  beautiful  style  which  it  enjoys  is 
not  maiidy  based  upon  the  sentence.  They  walk 
home  "across  the  meadow  leading  to  the  town,  whither 
the  dusky  troo})s  of  Gownsmen  with  all  their  confused 
voices  seem'd  as  it  were  evaporating  in  the  twilight, 
while  a  Nightingale  began  to  be  heard  among  the 
flowering  Chestiuus  of  Jesus. " 

There  are,  too,  charming  passages  about  the  poets 
that  come  luider  discussion.  The  Cantei'bury  Pilgrims 
are  ilescribcd,  "and  one  among  them  taking  note  of 
all,  in  \'erse  still  fresh  as  the  air  of  those  Kentish 
hills  they  travelled  over  on  tlial  April  morning  four 
hundred  years  ago.' 

Again,  he  writes  of  ^Vords\vorth,   that  the  strength 


134  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

he  had  won  by  active  exercise  was  so  great  "that  he 
may  still  be  seen,  I  am  told,  at  near  upon  Eighty, 
travelling  with  the  shadow  of  the  cloud  up  Helvellyn." 
Perhaps  the  most  interesting  passages  are  those  that 
refer  to  Tennyson,  embodying  anecdotes  and  dida 
which  have  since  become  familiar  in  biographies.  Here 
is  a  fine  passage  depicting  Tennyson  as  he  appeared  in 
the  eye  of  his  contemporaries.  Euphranor  is  speaking 
of  the  melancholy  of  Burns's  "Ye  Banks  and  Braes." 

"Are  you  not  forgetting,"  said  I,  "that  Burns  w.is  not  then 
singing  of  himself,  but  of  some  forsaken  damsel,  as  appears  by 
the  second  stanza ']  which  few,  by  the  way,  care  to  remember. 
As  unremember'd  it  may  have  been,"  I  continued  after  a  pause, 
"  by  the  only  living — and  like  to  live — Poet  I  had  known, 
when,  so  many  years  after,  he  found  himself  beside  that 
'  bonny  Doon,'  and — whether  it  were  from  recollection  of  poor 
Burns,  or  of  'the  days  that  are  no  more,'  which  haunt  us  all, 
I  know  not — I  think  he  did  not  know — but  he  somehow 
'broke'  as  he  told  me,  'broke  into  a  passion  of  tears.' — Of 
tears  which,  during  a  pretty  long  and  intimate  intercourse,  I 
had  never  seen  glisten  in  his  e^^e  but  once,  when  reading 
Virgil — 'dear  old  Virgil,'  as  he  call'd  him — together;  and 
then  of  the  burning  of  Troy  in  the  second  jEneid — whether 
moved  by  the  catastrophe's  self,  or  the  majesty  of  the  Verse 
it  is  told  in — or,  as  before,  scarce  knowing  why.  For,  as 
King  Arthur  shall  bear  witness,  no  young  Edwin  he,  though, 
as  a  great  Poet,  comprehending  all  the  softer  stops  of  human 
Emotion  in  that  Eegister  where  the  Intellectual,  no  less  than 
what  is  called  the  Poetical,  faculty  predominated.  As  all  who 
knew  him  know,  ;i  Man  at  all  points,  Euphranor,  like  your 
Digby,  of  grand  proportion  and  feature,  significant  of  that 
inward  Chivalry,  becoming  his  ancient  and  honourable  race  : 
when  himself  a  '  Yonge  Squire,'  like  him  in  Chaucer  '  of  grete 
strength,'  that  could  hurl  the  crowbar  further  than  any  of  the 
neiglibotu'ing  clowns,  wliose  humours,  as  well  as  of  their 
betters — Knight,  Si[uire,  Landlord,  and  Land-tenant — he  took 
quiet  note  of,  like  Cluiucer  liimself.     Like  your  Wordsworth 


VI.]  TLAYH—EUPHIiANOR—LETTERU  135 

on  the  Mountain,  he  too,  when  a  Lad,  abroad  on  the  Wold  ; 
sometimes  of  a  night  with  the  Shepherd  ;  watching  not  only 
the  Flock  on  the  greensward,  but  also 

"  '  The  fleecy  Star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas,' 

along  with  those  other  Zodiacal  constellations  which  Aries,  I 
think,  leads  over  the  field  of  Heaven.  He  then  observed  also 
some  of  those  uncertain  phenomena  of  Night  :  unsurmised 
apparitions  of  the  Northern  Aurora,  by  some  shy  glimpses 
of  which  no  winter — no,  nor  even  summer — night,  he  said, 
was  utterly  unvisited  ;  and  those  strange  voices,  whether  of 
creeping  brook,  or  copses  muttering  to  themselves  far  oflf — 
perhaps  the  yet  more  impossible  Sea — together  with  'other 
sounds  we  know  not  whence  they  come,'  says  Crabbe,  but  all 
inaudible  to  the  ear  of  Day.  He  was  not  then,  I  suppose, 
unless  the  Word  spontaneously  came  upon  him,  thinking  how 
to  turn  what  he  saw  and  heard  into  Verse  ;  a  premeditation 
that  is  very  likely  to  defeat  itself,  previously  breathing,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  mirror  which  is  to  receive  the  Image  that  most 
assuredly  Hashes  Reality  into  words." 

Euphranor  was  published  in  1851.  FitzGerald  was 
not  particularly  proud  of  it,  calling  it  "a  pretty 
specimen  of  a  chiselled  cherry-stone."  He  altered  it  a 
good  deal  at  a  later  date. 

He  seems  at  all  events  to  have  been  thoroughly 
in  earnest  -when  he  wrote  the  dialogue ;  and  it  is 
curious  to  consider  how  entirely  the  state  of  things  that 
it  reflects  has  disappeared.  It  seems  almost  incredible 
that  fifty  years  ago  it  should  have  been  necessary  to 
put  in  a  pica  for  physical  exercise  at  School  and 
College ;  that  it  should  be  necessary  to  plead  that 
Burns's  poetiy  was  no  worse  because  he  had  followed 
the  plough,  or  that  Gil)bon's  History  was  not  vitiated 
by  his  having  been  an  officer  in  the  Hampshire 
Militia.  If  FitzGerald  could  now  write  a  dialogue  on 
the  subject  of  athletic^,  it  is   probable  that  he  would 


136  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

have  delicately  chastised  the  undue  importance  attached 
to  them. 

Yet  the  little  book  remains,  penetrated  with  the 
delicate  fragrance  of  a  poetical  spirit,  with  the  strong 
sense  of  beauty,  and  with  the  pathos  of  the  brevity  of 
happiness,  which  was  the  dominant  strain  in  Fitz- 
Gerald's  mind. 

But  it  is  not  from  the  Enphranor,  charming  and 
artistic  as  it  is,  that  FitzGerald  will  win  any  perma- 
nence of  reputation. 

Next  to  the  Omar  Khayyam,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
FitzGerald's  best  title  to  literary  fame  will  be  derived 
from  his  letters.  The  Omar  forms,  as  it  were,  a 
pedestal  for  his  fame  ;  without  it  FitzGerald's  other 
works  would  not  have  received,  and,  it  may  be  frankly 
said,  would  hardly  have  deserved  attention. 

But  the  statue,  so  to  speak,  which  will  stand  upon 
the  pedestal,  is  the  strange,  remote,  tender,  wistful 
personality  which  the  letters  reveal.  Indeed  the 
figure  can  hardly  be  said  to  stand ;  rather  the  easy, 
unconsidered,  natural  pose  recalls  to  the  mind  the  Sic 
scdehat  of  the  statue  of  Bacon  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  There  is  no  studied  gesture,  no  draping 
of  honourable  robes ;  but  the  man  himself,  with  his 
virtues  and  his  faults,  his  strength  and  weakness, 
beauty-loving,  loyal,  irresolute,  and  listless,  is  before 
you  as  he  lived. 

The  one  condition  that  makes  letters  memorable  is 
that  they  should  I'eveal  personality.  But  in  England, 
we  are  so  enamoured  of  definite  achievement  that  we 
scarfcly  care  to  read  the  letters  of  any  except  those 
■who  have  won  for  themselves  a  fume  in  other  regions. 
It  might  be  that  one  who  desired  to  tread  a  new  path  of 
literary  renown  could  devote  himself  with  a  single  eye 
to  letter-writing.     But  there  are  several  disadvantages 


VI.]  VLAYS—EUPIlJRAyOJi-LETTERS  137 

attending  the  practice.  The  first  is  that  any  renown 
attainable  is  almost  bound  to  be  posthumous ;  and  there 
are  few  literary  men  who  could  so  put  away  the  desire 
for  contemporary  fame  as  to  pour  their  mind  and 
heart  into  the  task.  Then,  again,  the  fame  of  a  letter- 
writer  is  at  the  mercy  of  accidents  :  his  correspondents 
may  not  preserve  the  documents.  It  is  possible  to 
do  as  Pope  and  J.  A.  Symonds  did,  and  preserve  copies 
of  letters,  even  to  annotate  them  for  future  publication. 
But  this  is  to  make  the  business  a  pompous  one,  and  to 
wipe  off  the  bloom  which  is  half  the  delight  of  beauti- 
ful letters,  the  bloom  of  a  careless  naturalness. 

FitzGerald's  letters  will  please  by  a  sort  of  confiding 
and  childlike  wistfulness,  which  is  never  undignified, 
combined  with  a  delicate  humour,  a  shrewd  eye  for 
all  that  is  characteristic,  an  admirable  power  of  brief 
and  picturesque  description,  and  by  a  style  which  is  at 
once  familiar  and  stately.  The  earlier  letters  have 
more  statelincss  than  the  latter,  and  the  only  sign  of 
youth  in  them  is  a  sort  of  deliberate  quaintness  and 
even  pomposity,  which  fell  away  from  him  in  his  later 
years.  His  letters,  like  Charles  Lamb's,  are  full  of 
echoes,  echoes  of  books  and  voices  and  the  sweet  sounds 
of  nature.  The  letters  are  never  dull ;  even  the  most 
detailed  and  domestic  have  that  evasive  quality  called 
charm  ;  and  the  style,  though  it  is  seldom  elaborate, 
always  walks  with  a  certain  daintiness  and  precision. 
Tlicre  are  many  little  mannerisms  in  the  letters,  which, 
like  all  mannerisms,  ])lease  if  the  personality  ])leases. 
Such  are  FitzGerald's  use  of  initial  capitals  to  indicate 
emphatic  substantives — "1  like  ]ilenty  of  Capitals,"  he 
used  to  say — and  his  nni(jne  punctuation,  which  brings 
the  very  gradations  of  xoive  and  pauses  of  thought 
befoi'C  the  reader.  Both  of  these  manneriNUis  ^^('I•c 
taken,  I  believe,  to  a  great  extent  from  Crabbe. 


138  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

FitzGerald's  management  of  paragraphs  is  another 
salient  characteristic ;  and  he  has,  moreover,  a  peculiar 
delicacy  in  his  use  of  paragraph  endings,  Avhich  close 
the  passage  as  it  were  with  a  certain  snap,  leaping 
briskly  from  the  page,  instead  of  dying  feebly  away 
into  silence. 

Again,  FitzGerald's  handling  of  anecdote  is  another 
salient  characteristic  of  his  style.  Nowadays  letter- 
writers  are,  as  a  rule,  far  too  much  in  a  hurry  to  deal 
in  anecdotes.  But  FitzGerald  tells  a  story  with 
delighted  zest,  repeating  it  to  different  correspondents 
frequently.  He  had,  too,  a  marvellous  sense  of  pathos ; 
not  the  superficial  pathos  which  depends  upon  acci- 
dents, but  the  pathos  which  has  its  root  in  the  larrimce 
remni. 

Being  confidential  by  temperament,  FitzGerald 
needed  some  one  to  confess  to,  to  gossip  to,  to  be  sad 
or  merry  with,  according  to  his  mood.  He  wrote 
to  Allen  in  1832:— 

"  I  am  of  that  superior  race  of  men,  that  are  quite  content 
to  hear  themselves  talk,  and  read  their  own  writing.  But,  in 
seriousness,  I  have  such  love  of  you,  and  of  myself,  that  once 
every  week,  at  least,  I  feel  spurred  on  by  a  sort  of  gathering 
up  of  feelings  to  vent  myself  in  a  letter  upon  you  :  but  if 
once  I  hear  you  say  that  it  makes  your  conscience  thus  uneasy 
till  you  answer,  I  shall  give  it  up.  Upon  my  word,  I  tell  you, 
that  I  do  not  in  the  least  require  it.  You,  who  do  not  love 
writing,  cannot  think  that  any  one  else  does  :  but  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  I  have  a  very  young-lady-like  partiality  to  writing 
to  those  that  I  love.  .  .  ." 

But  beside  the  humanity  of  the  letters  there  is  a 
grateful  sense  of  leisureliness  about  them.  These 
letters  are  not  written  in  the  train,  like  the  letters  of 
eminent  Bishops,  nor  dashed  off  against  time,  as  by 
statesmen  waiting  to  keep  an  appointment ;  they  are 


VI.]  VLAYS—EUPHRANOR—I.ETTKB.S  139 

rather  written  gently  and  equably  in  the  firelit  room, 
with  the  curtains  drawn,  and  the  cat  purring  beside  the 
hearth ;  or  in  the  pleasant  summer,  with  the  windows 
open,  and  the  scent  of  roses  in  the  air.  They  are  not 
written  with  any  motive,  except  to  have  a  confidential 
talk  with  an  absent  friend ;  and,  what  is  one  of  the 
greatest  charms  of  good  letters,  they  are  not  written  fo 
a  correspondent  but  from  the  writer.  They  are  not 
replies  ;  but  with  a  gentle  egotism,  they  give  picture 
after  picture  of  the  simple  life  FitzGerald  was  leading. 
They  preserve  the  moment,  the  hour,  the  scene ;  they 
indicate  the  thought  just  as  it  rose  fresh  in  the  author's 
mind.  I  imagine  that  FitzGerald  had  one  special 
felicity  in  framing  these  letters ;  he  was  not  a  conver- 
sationalist of  a  high  order ;  his  reflective  mind  did  not 
move  briskly  enough.  But  one  cannot  resist  the  feel- 
ing that  his  mind  worked  exactly  as  fast  as  he  wrote  ; 
the  thought  never  outruns  the  expression  :  the  expres- 
sion never  lags  behind  the  thought. 

Another  great  charm  of  the  letters  is  their  inimit- 
able humour;  it  is  not  wit  in  FitzGerald's  case  so 
much  as  a  subtle,  permeating  medium  which  penetrates 
a  whole  passage  and  lends  it  a  delicate  aroma.  It  is 
difficult  to  give  instances  of  a  quality  which,  as  it  were, 
rather  soaks  a  whole  letter  than  gathers  at  salient 
points  ;  but  I  select  a  few  short  passages. 

Thus,  in  one  of  his  most  delightful  letters  to  Barton, 
he  describes  with  humorous  pomposity  an  invitation 
he  had  received  to  give  a  lecture  : — 

"  If  I  do  not  see  you  before  I  fjo  to  Loudon,  I  shall 
assuredly  be  down  airain  l)y  the  latter  part  of  February  ; 
when  toasted  cheese  and  ale  shall  attain  unite  our  souls. 
You  need  not  however  expect  that  I  can  return  to  such 
familiar  intercour.se  as  once  (in  former  days)  passed  between 
us.      New    honours   in   society   have   devolved   ujion   me   the 


140  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

necessity  of  a  more  dignified  deportment.  A  letter  has  been 
sent  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Ipswich  Mechanics'  Institution 
asking  me  to  Lecture — any  subject  but  Party  Politics  or 
Controversial  Divinity.  On  my  politely  declining,  another, 
a  fuller,  and  a  more  pressing  letter  was  sent  urging  me  to 
comply  with  their  demand  :  I  answered  to  the  same  effect, 
but  with  accelerated  dignity.  I  am  now  awaiting  the  third 
request  in  confidence  :  if  you  see  no  symptoms  of  its  being 
mooted,  perhaps  you  will  kindly  propose  it.  I  have  prepared 
an  answer.     Donne  is  mad  with  envy." 

And  when  was  ever  so  much  colour  and  rhetoric  ex- 
pended on  a  question  of  poultry  ? 

"  It  occurs  to  me  that,  when  I  last  saw  you,  you  gave  me 
hopes  of  finding  a  Chanticleer  to  replace  that  aged  fellow  you 
saw  in  my  Domains.  He  came  from  Grundisburgh  ;  and 
surely  you  spoke  of  some  such  Bird  flourishing  in  Grundis- 
burgh still.  I  will  not  hold  out  for  the  identical  plumage — 
worthy  of  an  Archangel — I  only  stipulate  for  one  of  the  sort  : 
such  as  are  seen  in  old  Story  books  ;  and  on  Churcli-A-anes  ; 
with  a  plume  of  Tail,  a  lofty  Crest  and  Walk,  and  a  shrill 
trumpet-note  of  Challenge  :  and  splendid  colours  ;  black  and 
red  ;  black  and  Gold  ;  white,  and  red,  and  Gold  !  Only  so 
as  he  be  '  gay,'  according  to  old  Suffolk  speecli. 

"Well,  of  course  you  won't  trouble  yourself  about  this: 
only  don't  forget  it,  next  time  you  ride  thi'ough  Grundis- 
burgli.  Or  if,  in  the  course  of  any  Eide,  you  should  see  any 
such  Bird,  catch  him  up  at  once  upon  your  Saddle-bow,  and 
bring  him  to  the  distressed  Widows  on  my  Estate." 

Or  he  could  describe  with  humorous  perception 
the  foibles  even  of  those  whom  he  devotedly  loved. 
He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Kemble : — 

"  I  have  been  having  Frederic  Tennyson  with  me  down 
here.  He  has  come  to  England  (from  Jersey  where  his  home 
now  is)  partly  on  Business,  and  partly  to  bring  over  a  deaf 
old  Gentleman  who  has  discovered  the  Original  Mystery  of 
Freemasonry,  by  means  of  Spiritualism.  The  Freemasons 
h..ve  for  Ages  been  ignorant,   it   seems,  of  the  very   Secret 


VI. 1  FLAYS— NUPffRA  NO  li'— LETTERS  141 

which  all  their  Emblems  and  Signs  refer  to  :  and  the  question 
is,  if  they  care  enough  for  their  own  Mystery  to  buy  it  of 
this  ancient  Gentleman.  If  they  do  not,  he  will  shame  them 
by  Publishing  it  to  all  the  world.  Frederic  Tennyson,  who 
has  long  been  a  Swedenborgian,  a  Spiritualist,  and  is  now 
even  himself  a  Medium,  is  quite  grand  and  sincere  in  this  as 
in  all  else  :  with  the  Faith  of  a  Gigantic  Child — pathetic  and 
yet  humorous  to  consider  and  consort  with." 

The  following  is  not  a  criticism — only  a  Shake- 
spearian handling  of  gossip  : — 

"  Have  you  heard  that  Arthur  Malkin  is  to  be  married  ?  to  a 
Miss  C'arr,  with  what  Addison  might  call  a  pleasing  fortune  : 
or  perhaps  Nicholas  Rowe.  '  Sweet,  pleasing  friendship,  etc. 
etc'  Mrs.  Malkin  is  in  high  spirits  about  it,  I  hear  :  and  I 
am  very  glad  indeed.  God  send  that  you  have  not  heard  this 
before  :  for  a  man  likes  to  be  the  first  teller  of  a  pretty  piece 
of  news." 

One  of  the  special  powers  which  FitzGerald  possessed 
as  a  letter-writer  is  his  capacity  to  touch  oft"  a  little 
vignette  of  a  scene  :  these  tiny  pictures  ai-e  like  Bewick 
translated  into  prose,  simple,  homely,  even  fantastic, 
l)ut  always  just  suffused  with  a  sentiment,  a  tender 
emotion.  Such  is  the  picture  he  draws  of  the  old 
English  Manor-house,  holding  up  its  inquiring  chimneys 
and  weathercocks,  which  could  be  espied  by  sailors 
out  on  the  restless  sea,  or  his  cottage  thatch  perft)rated 
by  lascivious  sparrows,  or  the  white  clouds  moving 
over  the  new-fledged  tops  of  oak-trees. 

Here  is  a  little  sketch  of  a  windy  night  in  the  marshy 
Hats  of  Woodbridge  : — 

'■  Three  nights  ago  I  looked  out  at  about  ten  o'clock  at 
night,  before  going  to  l>ed.  It  seemed  perfectly  still  ;  frosty, 
and  the  stars  shining  bright.  I  heard  a  continuous  moaning 
sound,  which  I  knew  to  be,  not  that  of  an  infant  exposed,  or 
female  ravished,  but  of  the  sea,  more  than  ten  miles  oii' ! 
What  little  wind  there  was  carried  to  us  the  inurnuus  of  the 


142  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

ware  circulating  round  these  coasts  so  far  over  a  flat  country. 
But  people  here  think  that  this  sound  so  heard  is  not  from  the 
waves  that  break,  but  a  kind  of  prophetic  voice  from  the  body 
of  the  sea  itself  announcing  great  gales.  .  .  ." 

Here  is  a  tiny  characterisation  of  the  Oleander  : — 

"  Don't  you  love  the  Oleander  ?  So  clean  in  its  leaves  and 
stem,  as  so  beautiful  in  its  flower  ;  loving  to  stand  in  water, 
which  it  drinks  up  so  fast.     I  rather  worship  mine." 

Here  lie  sits,  in  a  dry  month,  old  and  blind,  being 
read  to  by  a  country  boy,  longing  for  rain : — 

"  Last  niiiht  when  Miss  Tox  was  just  coming,  like  a  good 
Soul,  to  ask  about  the  ruined  Dombey,  we  heard  a  Splash  of 
Rain,  and  I  had  the  Book  shut  up,  and  sat  listening  to  the 
Shower  by  myself — till  it  blew  over,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and 
no  more  of  the  sort  all  night.  But  we  are  thankful  for  that 
small  mercy." 

Again,  another  delight  of  these  letters  is  the  full- 
furnished  mind  out  of  which  they  proceeded.  Fitz- 
Gerald's  brain  was  like  the  magic  isle — 

"  Full  of  noises. 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not." 

The  old  music  of  bygone  singers,  rich  haunting 
sentences  of  old  leisurely  authors,  rang  in  his  brain, 
and  came  unbidden  to  his  pen. 

Then,  too,  there  is  a  great  plenty  of  the  finest 
critical  appreciation  throughout  the  letters.  His 
friendship  with  Professor  Norton,  near  the  end  of 
his  life,  seems  to  have  called  this  faculty  out  with 
especial  prodigality.  I  suppose  that  with  his  old 
and  intimate  friends  FitzGerald  thought  that  his 
literary  preferences  and  critical  judgments  might 
have  a  certain  air  of  familiarity.  But  to  this  apprecia- 
tive stranger  from  the  new  world  he  opened  his  mind, 


VI.]  ThAYS— EUPHR A  NOR— LETTERS  143 

and,  like  the  wise  householder,  brought  out  of  his 
treasure  things  new  and  old. 

FitzGerald  had,  too,  another  characteristic  which 
stood  him  in  good  stead ;  he  was  innately  and  by 
training  a  great  gentleman;  and  thus  he  never  com- 
plains. He  admits  his  correspondent  by  swift  and 
humorous  touches  into  his  troubles  and  little  afflictions ; 
but  always  with  a  kind  of  gentle  contempt  for  his  own 
weakness  in  being  vexed  by  such  slight  annoyances. 
He  was  very  fond  of  the  story  of  the  rich  gentleman 
whom  John  Wesley  visited,  who,  when  the  chimney 
smoked,  cried  out  with  Christian  resignation,  "These 
are  some  of  the  crosses,  Mr.  Wesley,  that  I  have  to 
bear."  FitzGerald  disliked  obtruding  his  own  afflic- 
tions. He  felt  them  with  an  increasing  impatience, 
but  he  never  inflicts  them  upon  his  correspondent ;  he 
never  airs  a  grievance. 

Of  his  graver  sorrows  he  hardly  dares  to  speak. 
Again  and  again  he  closes  the  door  upon  grief  with 
a  kind  of  noble  and  Stoical  resignation.  Yet  the  result 
is  that  the  reader  of  the  letters  feels  that  he  is  being 
confided  in  ;  he  never  loses  the  sense  of  intimite,  while 
at  the  same  time  he  is  never  bored  by  a  want  of 
perspective. 

FitzGerald  had,  moreover,  a  very  true  and  instinc- 
tive judgment  of  people.  He  had  many  weaknesses 
of  his  own,  but  he  was  acutely  observant  of  the 
foibles  of  others.  And  he  had,  too,  the  spectatorial 
power  of  extracting  a  kind  of  critical  pleasure  out  of 
salient  indications  of  personality.  And  all  this  with 
a  lightness  of  touch  which  never  presses  hard  upon 
a  delicate  eftect,  never  degenerates  into  tediousness  or 
twaddle. 

Of  course  the  letters  will  not  suit  every  one.  Headers 
who  are  in  search  of  definite  facts  and  definite  anec- 


144  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

dotes,  who  prefer  precise  scandal  about  historical 
personages  to  subtle  revelations  of  character  and 
personality,  may  think  there  is  much  sauce  and  little 
meat.  But  FitzGerald's  letters,  though  they  contain 
interesting  incidental  reminiscences  of  distinguished 
persons,  will  be  read  more  for  the  subtle  aroma  which 
pervades  them  than  as  solid  contributions  to  the  liter- 
ary history  of  the  time.  He  himself  set  no  great  value 
on  his  letters.  "  I  don't  think  letter- writing  men  are 
much  worth,"  he  wrote  to  Lowell  in  1878.  Yet,  if 
only  FitzGerald  could  thus  have  taken  the  whole  world 
into  his  confidence,  instead  of  a  few  dear  friends  only, 
he  might  have  proved  a  great  and  moving  writer ;  but 
he  needed  the  personal  relation,  the  individual  tie,  to 
call  out  his  tender,  melancholy  thought. 

It  is  a  task  of  great  difficulty  to  endeavour  to  fix 
the  position  of  FitzGerald  with  regard  to  the  literary 
tradition  of  the  age.  The  truth  is  that  he  was  essen- 
tially an  amateur ;  he  was  enabled  by  a  curious  con- 
juncture of  fortunate  circumstances  to  give  to  the 
world  one  minute  piece  of  absolutely  first-rate  work. 
But  the  Omar  cannot  be  said  to  have  affected  the 
stream  of  English  poetry  very  deeply  ;  it  has  not 
turned  the  current  of  poetical  thought  in  the  direction 
of  Oriental  verse  ;  moreover,  the  language  of  the  Omar, 
stately  and  beautiful  as  it  is,  has  no  modernity  about 
it ;  it  is  not  a  development,  but  a  reverting  to  older 
traditions,  a  memorable  graft,  so  to  speak,  of  a  bygone 
style. 

FitzGerald's  position  with  regard  to  the  poetry  that 
was  rising  and  swelling  about  him  is  as  that  of  a 
stranded  boat  on  a  lee-shore.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  into  line  with  modern  verse  at  all ;  he  had 
none  of  the  nineteenth-century  spirit.     Yet  he  is  in 


VI.]  FLAYS— EUPHRANOlt— LETTERS  145 

the  forefront  of  those  who,  standing  apart  from  the 
direct  current  of  the  time,  seem  destined  to  make  the 
Victorian  age  furnish  a  singularly  rich  anthology  of 
beautiful  poetry.  How  many  poets  there  are  in  the 
last  century  whose  Avork  does  not  entitle  them  to  be 
called  great  poets,  who  yet  have  produced  a  very  little 
of  the  best  quality  of  poetry.  The  same  is  singularly 
true  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  which  produced  not  only 
great  poets,  but  a  large  number  of  poetasters  whose 
work  rises  in  a  few  lyrics  into  the  very  front  rank. 

With  FitzGerald  it  may  be  plainly  said  that,  with 
the  exception  of  Omar  and  The  Meadoivs  in  Spring,  all 
the  rest  of  his  deliberate  work  in  verse  is  second-rate, 
the  product  of  a  gifted  and  accomplished  amateur. 

But,  in  prose,  there  still  remain  the  wonderful  letters ; 
and  these  have  a  high  value,  both  for  their  beautiful 
and  original  literary  form,  for  the  careless  picture  they 
give  of  a  certain  type  of  retired  and  refined  country 
life,  for  their  unconsidered  glimpses  of  great  personali- 
ties, and  for  the  fact  that  they  present  a  very  peculiar 
and  interesting  point  of  view,  a  delicate  criticism  of 
life  from  a  highly  original  standpoint.  The  melancholy 
which  underlies  the  letters  is  not  a  practical  or  inspir- 
ing thing,  but  it  is  essentially  true  ;  and  it  carries  with 
it  a  sad  refinement,  a  temperate  waiting  upon  the 
issues  of  life,  a  so))er  resignation,  Mhich  are  pure  and 
noble.  FitzGerald,  by  his  lover-like  tenderness  of 
heart,  his  wistful  desire  to  clasp  hands  with  life,  was 
enabled  to  resist  the  temptation,  apt  to  beset  similar 
temperaments,  to  sink  into  a  dreary  silence  about  the 
whole  unhappy  business.  And  thus  there  emerges  a 
certain  gentle  and  pathetic  philosophy,  not  a  philosophy 
for  the  brisk,  the  eager,  and  the  successful,  but  a  philo- 
sophy for  all  who  find  their  own  defects  of  character 
too   strong   for    them,    and    yet    would    not   willingly 

K 


146  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap.  vi. 

collapse  into  petulant  bitterness.  FitzGerald  is  a  sort 
of  sedate  Hamlet;  the  madness  that  wrought  in  his 
brain  does  not  emerge  in  loud  railings,  or  in  tem- 
pestuous and  brief  agonies  of  desperate  action ;  but  it 
emerges  in  many  gentle  gestures  and  pathetic  beckon- 
ings,  and  a  tender  desire,  in  a  world  where  so  much  is 
dark,  that  men  should  cling  all  together  and  float  into 
the  darkness.  There  are  many  who  cannot  believe  and 
cannot  act — and  for  these,  as  for  FitzGerald,  it  seems 
best  to  hold  fast  to  all  that  is  dear  and  beautiful.  To 
such  as  these  FitzGerald  speaks  heart  to  heart ;  and, 
after  all,  no  gifts  of  style,  no  brisk  technique  can  ever 
take  the  place  of  that  closeness  of  fellowship,  which 
seems  to  be  the  only  human  power  that  may  perhaps 
defy  even  Death. 


CHAPTEK    VII 

CRITICISM 

FitzGerald's  letters  arc  full  of  critical  judgments,  per- 
sonal predilections  in  literature,  art,  and  music,  little 
pronouncements,  nice  appreciations.  He  was  more  of  a 
connoisseur  than  a  critic,  a  taster  of  fragrant  essences, 
an  inhaler  of  subtle  aromas.  But  his  perception  of 
quality  was  so  innate,  and  his  discriminating  attitude 
so  integral  a  part  of  his  temperament  and  character, 
that  it  is  advisable  to  treat  his  critical  position  separ- 
ately. As  a  critic,  he  is  remarkable  not  so  much  for 
his  largeness  and  siireness,  as  for  his  delicacy  and 
subtlety.  His  field  was  limited ;  the  fine  fibres  of  his 
sympathy  could  not  wholly  permeate  the  mass  of 
literature  ;  affectation,  pedantry,  mannerisms  of  certain 
kinds  erected,  as  it  were,  a  fence  about  particular 
authors  which  he  could  not  penetrate.  His  reading 
was  in  one  way  wider  and  in  another  way  narrower 
than  that  of  most  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was  not 
so  much  insular  as  eclectic ;  differences  of  national 
spiiit  and  an  unfamiliar  medium  of  language  rather 
stimulated  than  hindered  his  appreciation.  What  did 
hamper  him  were  certain  almost  pettish,  childish, 
feminine  prejudices  of  his  own  mind  and  taste.  If  an 
author  instated  him  at  the  outset,  he  did  not  try  to 
understand  him  ;  in  this  respect  his  judgment  was 
amateurish,  like  his  other  work  ;  he  was  vivid  but  not 
broad.      His  criticism,   to  use  a  metaphoi',   is  like  a 

147 


148  P]DWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

stream,  rapid  and  l)right,  with  deep  translucent  pools, 
but  without  navigable  channels.  Within  certain  limits 
his  taste,  his  flair  were  perfect.  He  had  a  pre-eminent 
sense  of  quality.  He  was  not  imposed  upon  by  volu- 
bility or  even  by  daring.  In  the  case  of  critics  less 
sensitive  to  quality,  volubility  is  often  mistaken  for 
imagination,  and  daring  for  strength.  But  where 
FitzGerald  sympathised,  he  instinctively  divined 
whether  the  artist  was  master  of  his  craft,  or 
whether  he  was  only  a  little  way  ahead  of  his  hearers. 

The  one  great  quality  which  seems  to  have  rather 
escaped  FitzGerald  was  the  quality  of  prodigal  vigour. 
He  was  a  critic  rather  of  detail  than  of  conception. 
He  was  fully  awake  to  small,  felicitous  effects.  But  he 
underestimated  large  authors  with  definite  manner- 
isms such  as  Milton,  Browning,  Victor  Hugo,  and 
Thackeray.  His  criticisms  of  Shakespeare,  for  in- 
stance, are  dictated  rather  by  admiration  for  his 
delicacies  than  by  stupefaction  at  his  greatness.  The 
unpardonable  sins  to  FitzGerald  were  uncouthness  and 
slovenliness. 

The  same  tendency  is  traceable  in  his  criticism  of 
art,  of  music,  of  landscape,  even  of  life.  He  tended  to 
concentrate  himself  upon  some  salient  point,  some 
minute  effect,  rather  than  upon  the  general  character- 
istics, the  harmony  of  scene  ;  as  he  wrote  to  Crabbe, 
recalling  Cambridge :  "  Ah,  I  should  like  a  drive 
over  Newmarket  Heath,  the  sun  shining  on  the  dis- 
tant leads  of  Ely  Cathedral" ;  and  to  "W.  F.  Pollock,  of 
Oxford:  "The  facade  of  Christ  Church  to  the  street  (by 
Wren,  I  believe)  is  what  most  delights  me ;  and  the 
voice  of  Tom  in  his  Totcer."  His  mind  and  memory 
worked,  so  to  speak,  in  vignettes.  He  remembered 
the  day,  the  hour,  the  momentary  emotion,  rather  than 
the  period  or  the  underlying  thought. 


VII.]  CRITICISM  149 

The  nature  of  FitzGcrald's  appreciation  of  beauty 
becomes  more  and  more  apparent  when  we  consider 
his  preferences  in  art  and  music.  In  art  he  was  essen- 
tially an  amateur ;  he  made  no  comprehensive  study  of 
it.  But  his  dicta  on  pictures  contain  many  subtle 
literary  appreciations,  enough  to  show  that  if  he  had 
taken  up  art  as  his  life's  work  he  could  have  been  a 
very  delicate  critic.  But  here  again  we  are  met  at 
every  point  by  prejudices,  and  by  the  fact  that,  with 
FitzGerakl,  a  prejudice  once  conceived  was  an  invin- 
cible barrier  to  further  acquaintance  ;  his  ingenuity 
was  all  directed,  when  he  had  once  adopted  an  attitude 
of  hostility,  to  finding  arguments  to  support  his  view. 
He  had  no  idea  of  conquering  prejudices,  or  of  trying 
to  see  into  the  strength  of  a  painter  and  the  motives 
which  guided  him. 

He  had,  moreover,  a  strong  belief  in  his  own  canons 
of  criticism.  He  wrote  to  Samuel  Laurence,  in  the  tirst 
letter  he  ever  addressed  to  him  :  "  I  suppose  a  visit  to 
Rome,  or  an  exact  technical  knowledge  of  pictures,  is 
very  essential.  I  am  sure  I  can  understand  the  finest 
part  of  pictures  without  doing  either." 

There  was  nothing  progressive  in  FitzGcrald's  love 
of  art;  he  was  content  to  stand  in  the  ancient  ways, 
and  only  too  much  inclined  to  dislike,  in  a  perverse 
way,  all  signs  of  modern  development.  Just  as  he 
disliked  the  Pre-Ilaphaelite  school  of  poetry,  he  dis- 
liked the  rre-Kapliaelite  conception  of  painting. 

What  lie  demanded  in  art  was  the  wholesome,  simple 
established  mode  of  conception  and  execution.  He 
could  not  put  himself  in  a  new  posture,  or  sympathise 
with  a  revolutionary  tendency. 

The  same  is  the  case  with  his  appreciation  of 
music,  which  moved  him  profoundly.  He  desired 
tranquil  beauty,   tenderness,   sim})licity ;  ho  hated  all 


150  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

tricks,  all  straining  after  effects,  all  melodramatic  com- 
plications. 

Thus  he  wrote  : — ■ 

"  I  grow  every  day  more  and  more  to  love  only  the  old  God 
save  the  King  style  :  the  common  chords,  those  truisms  of 
music,  like  other  truisms  so  little  understood  in  the  full. 
Just  look  at  the  mechanism  of  Robin  Adair." 

All  his  delight  was  in  pure,  simple,  massive  music  :  he 
loved  the  old  English  composers. 

"We  [Crabbe's  son  and  daughter]  with  not  a  voice  among 
us,  go  through  Handel's  Coronation  Anthem  !  Laughable  it 
may  seem  ;  yet  it  is  not  quite  so  ;  the  things  are  so  well 
defined,  simjile,  and  grand,  that  the  faintest  outline  of  them 
tells,  my  admiration  of  tlie  old  Giant  grows  and  grows  ;  his  is 
the  music  for  a  great,  active  people  I " 

We  see  then  that  both  in  painting  and  in  music 
FitzGerald  was  on  the  look-out  for  purity  and  sim- 
plicity of  effect.  But  one  feels  that  in  his  artistic  and 
musical  criticisms  he  was  only  chronicling  personal 
predilections  and  preferences  ;  he  gave  no  reasons  for 
the  faith  that  was  in  him.  He  could  never  disconnect 
art  from  life ;  and  thus  the  art  which  could  touch  the 
emotions  of  simple  people  and  play  a  part  in  common 
life,  by  stirring  the  tranquil  sense  of  beauty  in  normal 
minds,  seemed  to  him  a  greater  and  more  desirable 
thing  than  the  art  of  those  in  search  of  remote, 
mystical,  and  incommunicable  ideals. 

Here  again  he  was  dominated  by  the  simple  common- 
sense  which  was  so  strongly  marked  a  characteristic  of 
his  whole  nature,  and  which  makes  him  on  the  whole 
so  just  and  sane  a  critic.  But  just  for  this  very 
reason  he  had  no  catholicity  of  taste ;  he  could  not 
sympathise  with  the  difficult  raptures,  the  transcendent 
realism  which  raises  art  higher  from  platform  to  plat- 
form.    The  dimly  apprehended  secrets,  the  thrilling  of 


VII.]  CRITICISM  151 

sacred  emotions,  the  pontifical  responsibilities  which 
work  so  strongly  in  the  most  sensitive  and  esoteric 
natures  were  a  closed  book  to  FitzGerald.  These 
would  have  seemed  to  him  mere  pretentious  phantoms, 
an  unreal  and  hectic  posturing,  an  attempt  to  disguise 
an  egotistic  discontent  under  an  affected  solemnity. 

In  literary  regions,  FitzGerald  had  a  considerable 
confidence  in  his  own  critical  judgment.  He  wrote  to 
Cowell  :— 

"...  You,  I,  and  John  Allen  are  among  the  few,  I  do 
say,  wlio,  having  a  good  natural  Insight,  maintain  it  undimmed 
by  public,  or  private,  Regards." 

And  again,  to  the  same,  in  a  sentence  which  com- 
memorates the  extinction  of  FitzGerald's  faint  ambi- 
tions to  be  an  original  writer,  and  his  demure  acceptance 
of  the  critical  attitude  : — 

"  Ten  years  ago  I  might  have  been  vext  to  see  you  striding 
along  in  Sanscrit  and  Persian  so  fast ;  reading  so  much  ; 
remembering  all  ;  writing  about  it  so  well.  But  now  I  am 
glad  to  see  any  man  do  any  thiug  well  ;  and  I  know  that  it  is 
my  vocation  to  stand  and  wait,  and  know  within  myself 
whether  it  is  done  well." 

And  late  in  life  to  Lowell : — 

"  I  am  accredited  with  the  Aphorism,  'Taste  i.s  the  Feminine 
of  Genius.'  However  that  may  be,  I  have  some  confidence  in 
my  own." 

He  gives  an  account  of  the  spirit  in  wliich  he  read, 
in  early  days,  which  shows  that  he  demanded  to 
appreciate  rather  than  to  master  the  spirit  of  a 
writer  : — 

"  I  take  pleasure  in  reading  things  I  don't  wholly  under- 
stand ;  just  as  the  old  women  like  sermons  ;  I  think  it  is  of  a 
piece  with  an  admiration  of  all  Nature  around  us.  I  think 
there  is  a  greater  charm  in  the  half  meanings  and  glimpses  of 


152  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

meaning  that  come  in  through  Blake's  wilder  visiong  :  though 
his  difficulties  arose  from  a  very  different  source  from  Shake- 
speare's. But  somewhat  too  much  of  this.  I  suspect  I  have 
found  out  this  as  an  useful  sohition,  when  I  am  asked  the 
meaning  of  anything  that  I  am  admiring,  and  don't  know  it." 

But,  as  has  been  said,  FitzGerald  was  always  a  critic 
of  detail  and  form,  rather  than  a  critic  of  tendencies 
and  currents  in  literature.  It  will  therefore  be  con- 
A-enient  to  give  some  of  bis  more  detailed  views,  for  it 
is  in  these  rather  than  in  general  judgments  that  bis 
strength  lay.  He  bad  in  the  first  place  a  great  devotion 
to  the  Greek  and  Latin  Classics.  We  find  him  read- 
ing Homer,  ^scbylus,  Thucydidcs,  Plutarch,  Pindar, 
Xenopbon,  Menander,  and  Herodotus.  On  several  of 
these  authors  be  made  characteristic  comments.  He 
thought  Plutarch,  he  says,  "  such  a  gentleman."'  He 
took  up  Tbucydides,  and  soon  found  himself  reading  it 
"like  a  novel."  But  of  all  Classical  authors  be  put 
Sophocles  far  the  first,  reading  him  repeatedly. 
Euripides  be  tried,  but  found  bis  subtlety  and  doctrin- 
aire morality  intolerable.  For  Homer's  Iliad,  "with 
its  brutal  Gods  and  Heroes,"  be  could  not  care.  Of 
^Escbylus  and  Sophocles  he  writes  : — 

"  Sophocles  is  a  pure  Greek  temple  ;  but  ^schylus  is  a 
rufrged  mountain,  lushed  by  seas,  and  riven  by  thunderbolts  ; 
iind  which  is  the  most  wonderful,  and  appalling?  Or  if  one 
will  have  ^schylus  too  a  Avork  of  man,  I  say  he  is  like  a 
Gothic  Cathedral,  which  the  Germans  say  did  arise  from  the 
genius  of  man  aspiring  up  to  the  immeasurable,  and  reaching 
after  the  infinite  in  complexity  and  gloom,  according  a.s 
Christianity  elevated  and  Avidened  men's  minds.  .  .  .  Besides 
these  ^Eschyluses  trouble  us  with  their  grandeur  and  gloom  ; 
but  Sophocles  is  always  soothing,  complete,  and  satisfactory." 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  he 
often    implored   Tennyson    to    translate    a    play    of 


VII.]  CRITICISM  153 

Sophocles.  "Every  great  poet,"  he  used  to  say, 
"owes  this  as  a  duty  to  his  predecessors." 

In  Latin  he  read  Tacitus,  Juvenal,  Lucretius,  Seneca, 
and  most  of  all  Virgil,  who  made  his  eyes  wet,  as  he 
says,  and  whom  he  loved.  Horace  he  never  really 
cared  for.  "Why  is  it,"  he  wrote,  "that  I  can  never 
take  up  with  Horace — so  sensible,  agreeable,  elegant, 
and  sometimes  even  grand  V 

Even  with  an  author  like  Virgil,  whom  he  devotedly 
loved,  he  can  lay  his  finger  on  the  one  defect,  namely, 
the  disproportion  of  ornament  to  conception  of  subject. 
But  it  is  clear  from  his  preference  of  Virgil  to  Catullus, 
that  he  was  always  inclined  to  value  tenderness  more 
highly  than  passion. 

"  I  have  also  been  visiting  dear  old  Virgil  :  his  Georgics 
and  the  sixth  and  eighth  books  of  the  ^"Eneid.  I  could  now 
take  them  up  and  read  them  both  again.  Pray  look  at  lines 
407-415  of  Book  viii. — the  poor  Matron  kindling  her  early  fire 
— so  Georgic !  so  Virgilian  !  so  unsuited,  or  disproportionate,  to 
the  Thing  it  illustrates." 

Of  Lucretius  he  wrote  : — 

"...  I  have  been  regaling  myself,  in  my  unscholarly  "vvity, 
■with  Mr.  ^lunro's  admirable  Lucretius  ...  I  venerate  the 
earnestness  of  the  man,  and  the  power  with  which  he  makes 
some  music  even  from  liis  hardest  Atoms.  ...  I  forget  if 
Lucretius  is  in  Dante  ;  he  should  have  been  the  Guide  thro' 
Hell ;  but  perhaps  he  was  too  deep  in  it  to  get  out  for  .-i 
Holiday." 

And  the  following  extract  on  Seneca  is  fnll  of 
originality  : — 

"  I  wonder  whether  old  Seneca  was  indeed  such  a  humbug 
as  people  now  say  he  was  :  he  is  really  a  fine  writer.  About 
three  hundred  years  ago,  or  less,  our  divines  and  writers 
called  him  the  divine  Seneca  ;  and  old  Bacon  is  full  of  him. 
One  sees  in  him  the  upshot  of  all  the  Greek  jJiilosophy,  how 


154  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [cuap. 

it  stood  in  Nero's  time,  when  the  Gods  had  worn  out  a  great 
deal.  I  don't  think  old  Seneca  believed  he  should  live  again. 
Death  is  his  great  resource.  Think  of  the  rocococity  of  a 
gentleman  studying  Seneca  in  the  middle  of  February  1844 
in  a  remarkably  damp  cottage." 

In  English  FitzGerald  read,  especially  in  his  first 
youth,  the  early  balladists  and  lyrists.  He  speaks  of 
H.  Vaughan,  Wotton,  Carew,  Lily,  with  high  praise — 
"very  English  and  very  pleasant." 

In  poetry  generally  he  was  hard  to  please ;  he 
revelled  in  Shakespeare,  both  sonnets  and  plays,  but 
he  disliked  Milton  and  Spenser ;  he  admired  Dryden, 
especially  as  a  prose  writer;  Cowper  and  Pope  he 
called  men  of  genius,  but  out  of  his  sphere.  Gray  he 
ranked  very  high.  Wordsworth  he  loved,  but  he 
seldom  mentions  him  without  some  touch  of  irritation 
at  his  pomposity.  Of  moderns  the  three  Tennysons, 
Alfred,  Frederic,  and  Charles ;  but  of  most  contemporary 
poetry  he  spoke  in  terms  of  great  contempt ;  he  said, 
for  instance,  of  a  poetical  friend,  "He  talks  of  pub- 
lishing a  popular  edition  of  his  poems  :  he  means  a 
cheap  one." 

In  English  prose  he  read  at  one  time  a  good  deal 
of  the  older  divines,  Barrow,  Jeremy  Taylor,  South, 
and  Warburton.  He  admired  Burton's  Aiiatoviy  of 
Mclanchohj ;  he  loved  both  Fielding  and  Richardson, 
preferring  the  latter.  He  called  Clarissa  Harlowe 
"wonderful  and  aggravating"  and  often  desired  to 
make  an  abbreviation  of  it.  He  admired  Burke.  He 
was  fond  of  the  Spectator,  and  thought  at  one  time  of 
making  a  little  book  out  of  the  Roger  de  Coverley 
essays.  It  is  surprising  from  all  points  of  view  that 
he  did  not  care  for  Jane  Austen.  He  loved  an  old 
book  like  Harrington's  Oceana,  the  kind  of  large,  quiet 
book  that  you  find  in  an  old  country-house.     He  was 


VII.]  CRITICISM  155 

fond  of  big,  leisurely  l)iographies  such  as  Boswell'a 
Johnson  and  the  Life  and  Journals  of  John  IFesley.  He 
enjoyed  Horace  Walpole's  and  Cowper's  letters  and 
admired  Sheridan.  He  read  a  little  of  philosophy, 
such  as  Spinoza,  but  his  mind  turned  more  to  the 
definite  and  personal ;  he  said  once  that  he  wished  we 
had  more  diaries  of  unknown  men. 

Of  purely  modern  literature  he  read  little.  He 
was  very  fond  of  Newman,  both  the  Apologia  and  the 
Sermons.  He  read  the  Life  of  Arnold  with  interest. 
Of  modern  novels  he  read  both  Dickens  and  Thackeray 
with  critical  admiration ;  and  he  was  fond  both  of 
Wilkie  Collins  and  Trollope ;  but  he  never  appre- 
ciated George  Eliot.  Indeed  he  loved  romances 
rather  than  novels.  He  was  fond  of  reading  George 
Borrow,  but  complained  of  his  lapses  into  vulgarities 
of  expression.  He  read  Emerson,  but  found  him 
misty  and  intangible  ;  he  thought  Hawthorne  a  genius, 
but  "  not  altogether  to  his  taste."  Carlyle  he  criticised 
harshly  enough  in  early  days.  "Carlyle  raves  and 
foams,  but  he  has  nothing  to  propose " ;  but  after 
making  his  acquaintance  he  began  to  feel  differently. 
"  There  is  a  bottom  of  truth  in  his  wildest  rhapsodies," 
he  wrote. 

It  speaks  well  for  FitzGerald's  critical  acumen  that 
he  discovered  Blake  for  himself  in  1833  and  wrote  of 
him  with  bewildered  admiration. 

As  to  his  Oriental  studies,  there  is  a  recorded  com- 
ment which  casts  a  curious  light  upon  his  taste  for  them. 
"When  I  look  into  Homer,  Dante,  Virgil,  ^]schylus, 
Shakespeare,"  he  said,  "  those  Orientals  look  silly." 

I  have  thought  it  well  to  collect  these  scattered 
preferences,  because  they  illustrate  the  nature  of  Fitz- 
CJerald's  critical  judgineut.  It  will  be  seen  that  it 
is    essentially    whimsical ;    he    touched    literature    at 


156  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [cuxr. 

many  points,  but  there  is  no  catholicity  of  view.  He 
is  like  a  man  walking  in  a  garden  of  flowers,  attracted 
here  by  a  perfume,  there  by  a  colour,  and,  with  an 
almost  childlike  pettishness,  refusing  to  look  at  any- 
thing except  what  happens  to  strike  his  fastidious 
perception.     His  individuality  is  his  only  guide. 

The  charm  of  his  literary  criticisms  is  that  they 
come  out  so  simply,  in  a  kind  of  fireside  ease,  from  a 
man  who  has  read  books  because  he  loved  them,  with- 
out any  pontifical  solemnity — and  yet  they  are  as  true 
and  penetrating  as  those  of  Charles  Lamb  himself :  he 
began  to  criticise  early.     He  writes  in  1832  : — - 

"...  Shakespeare's  (sonnets)  are  perfectly  simple,  and 
have  the  very  essence  of  tenderness  .  .  .  they  seem  all  stuck 
about  my  heart,  like  the  ballads  that  used  to  be  on  the  walls 
of  London." 

He  could  never  bring  himself  really  to  care  for 
Milton ;  he  wrote  : — 

"  Then  Milton  ;  I  don't  think  I  've  read  him  these  forty 
years  ;  the  whole  Scheme  of  the  Poem,  and  certain  Parts  of 
it,  looming  as  grand  as  anything  in  my  Memory  ;  but  I  never 
could  read  ten  lines  together  without  stumbling  at  some 
Pedantry  that  tipped  me  at  once  out  of  Paradise,  or  even 
Hell,  into  the  Schoolroom,  worse  than  either.  Tennyson 
again  used  to  say  that  the  two  grandest  of  all  Similes  ■were 
those  of  the  Ships  hanging  in  the  Air,  and  '  the  Gunpowder 
one,'  ■which  he  used  slowly  and  grimly  to  enact,  in  the  Days 
that  are  no  more.  He  certainly  then  thought  ^Milton  the 
sublimest  of  all  the  Gang  ;  his  Diction  modelled  on  Virgil, 
as  perhaps  Dante's." 

The  following  is  an  interesting  apppreciation  of 
Dry  den's  prose,  written  to  Lowell : — 

"  As  in  the  case  of  your  Essays,  I  don't  pretend  to  say 
which  is  finest  :  but  I  think  that  to  me  Dryden's  Prose,  quoad 
Prose,  is  the  finest  Style  of  all.     So  Gray,  I  believe,  thought  : 


VII.]  CRITICISM  157 

tluit  man  of  Taste,  very  fur  removed,  perhai)3  as  fur  aa 
feminine  from  masculine,  from  the  Man  he  admired." 

What  could  be  more  penetrating  than  the  following 
criticism  of  AValpole's  letters,  written,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, to  a  girl : — 

"...  You  spoke  once  of  even  trying  Walpole'.s  Letters  : 
capital  as  they  are  to  me,  I  can't  be  sure  they  would  much 
interest,  even  if  they  did  not  rather  disgust,  you  :  the  Man 
and  his  Times  are  such  as  you  might  not  care  for  at  all, 
though  there  are  such  men  as  his,  and  such  Times  too,  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  N.B. — It  is  not  gross  or  coarse  :  but  you  would 
not  like  the  man,  so  satirical,  selfish,  and  frivolous,  you  would 
think.  But  I  think  I  could  show  you  that  he  had  a  very 
loving  Heart  for  a  few,  and  a  very  firm,  just,  understanding 
under  all  his  Wit  and  Fun.  Even  Carlyle  has  admitted  that 
he  was  about  the  clearest-sighted  Man  of  his  time." 

His  criticisms  of  Gray  are  very  delicate  : — 

"As  to  Gray — Ah,  to  think  of  that  little  Elegy  inscribed 

among  the  Stairs,  while , and  Co.  are  blazing  away 

with  their  Fireworks  here  below.  I  always  think  that  there  is 
more  Genius  in  most  of  the  three  volume  Novels  than  in  Gray: 
but  by  the  most  exquisite  Taste,  and  indefatigable  lubrication, 
he  made  of  his  own  few  thought.s,  and  many  of  other  men's, 
a  something  which  we  all  love  to  keep  ever  about  us.  I  do 
not  think  his  scarcity  of  work  was  from  Design  :  he  had  but 
a  little  to  say,  I  believe,  and  took  his  time  to  say  it.   .  .  ." 

Keats  he  greatly  admired ;  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Kemble : — 

"  Talking  of  Keats,  do  nut  forgot  to  road  Lord  Houghton's 
Life  and  Letters  of  him  :  in  which  you  will  find  what  you 
may  not  have  guessed  from  hi.s  Poetry  (though  almost  un- 
fathomably  deep  in  that  also),  the  strong,  masculine.  Sense  and 
Hunu)ur,  etc.,  of  the  man  :  more  akin  to  Shakespeare,  I  am 
tompted  to  think,  in  a  perfect  circle  of  Poetic  Faculties,  than 
any  Poet  since." 

A  figure  in  English  literature  for  whom  FitzGerald 


158  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

had  a  special  tenderness  and  sympathy  was  Charles 
Lamb ;  he  wrote  : — 

"  We  have  also  Memoirs  of  Godwin,  very  dry,  I  think  ; 
indeed  with  very  little  worth  reading,  except  two  or  three 
Letters  of  dear  Charles  Lamb,  '  Saint  Charles,'  as  Thackeray 
once  called  him,  while  looking  at  one  of  his  half-mad  Letters, 
and  remember[ing]  his  Devotion  to  that  quite  mad  Sister.  I 
must  say  I  think  his  Letters  infinitely  better  than  his  Essays  ; 
and  Patmore'  says  his  conversation,  when  just  enough  animated 
by  Gin  and  Water,  was  better  than  either,  which  I  believe 
too.  Procter  said  he  was  far  beyond  the  Coleridges,  Words- 
worths,  Southeys,  etc.     And  I  am  afraid  I  believe  that  also." 

FitzGerald  grew  to  love  Charles  Lamb  more  and 
more  as  life  went  on,  just  as  he  grew  to  love  Words- 
worth less. 

The  following  is  a  youthful  criticism  in  the  earlier 
and  more  deliberate  manner,  with  the  slightest 
possible  affectation  of  simplicity ;  but  none  the  less 
perspicacious : — 

"  I  have  been  poring  over  Wordsworth  lately  :  which  has 
had  much  effect  in  bettering  my  Blue  Devils  :  for  his  philo- 
sophy does  not  abjure  melancholy,  but  puts  a  pleasant  counten- 
ance upon  it,  and  connects  it  with  humanity.  It  is  very  well, 
if  the  sensibility  that  makes  us  fearful  of  ourselves  is  diverted 
to  become  a  cause  of  sympathy  and  interest  with  Nature  and 
mankind  :  and  this  I  think  Wordsworth  tends  to  do." 

Later  on  FitzGerald's  view  of  Wordsworth  was 
much  modified.  He  never  ceased  to  admire  the  sober 
majesty,  the  grave  tranquillity  of  the  best  work ;  but 
the  more  he  knew  of  the  man  and  his  nature,  the  more 
was  he  irritated  and  perplexed  by  the  affectation,  the 
deliberate  solemnity,  the  pose  of  the  poet  who  had  set 
out  in  quest  of  directness  and  simplicit}-.  The  truth 
which  perhaps  FitzGerald  did  not  quite  comprehend,  is 

1  Peter  George  Patmore  (1786-185")),  father  of  the  poet 
Coventry  Patmore. 


vn.]  CRITICISM  159 

that  Wordsworth  was  not  only  a  man  and  a  poet ;  the 
instinct  of  the  teacher  lay  in  the  very  marrow  of  his 
bones;  and  in  proportion  as  the  impulse  of  the  poet 
died  away,  the  impulse  of  the  teacher  emerged. 
Wordsworth  fell  into  the  lamentable  error,  character- 
istic of  earnest-minded  men  without  humour,  of  taking 
himself  too  seriously  and  overestimating  the  value  of 
his  own  influence.  FitzGerald  felt  the  poet's  attitude 
to  be  both  pretentious  and  grotesque ;  and  therefore, 
though  he  could  not  help  venerating  him,  it  delighted 
him  to  poke  fun  at  the  rather  self-conscious  prophet. 

FitzGerald  worshipped  Scott,  read  and  re-read  him 
in  the  days  of  strong  sight ;  and  in  the  days  of  clouded 
vision  had  the  novels  read  to  him.  Scott  opened  a 
door  to  him  into  an  enchanted  world,  not  the  dreary, 
familiar  world  he  knew  so  well  and  was  often  so 
wearied  of,  but  into  a  l)rave,  bright  country  of  fair 
ladies  and  shrewd  crones,  of  freebooters  and  knights 
and  gallant  gentlemen.  As  life  went  on  and  Fitz- 
Gerald grew  old  he  used  to  say  that  the  thought,  that 
the  particular  novel  of  Scott's  which  was  being  read  to 
him  he  might  iiever  hear  again,  threw  a  little  cloud  of 
sadness  over  his  mind.  Scott's  defects  as  a  M'riter 
seemed  to  FitzGerald  to  float  like  straws  on  a  river 
deep  and  wide. 

He  wrote  to  W.  F.  Pollock  : — 

"...  The  Pirate  is,  I  know,  not  one  of  Scott's  best  :  the 
Women,  Minna,  Brenda,  Noma,  are  poor  theatrical  figures. 
But  Magnus  and  Jack  Bunce  and  Claud  Halcro  (though  the 
latter  rather  wearisome)  are  substantial  enough  :  how  whole- 
somely they  swear  I  and  no  one  ever  thinks  of  blaming  Scott 
for  it.  There  is  a  passage  where  the  Company  at  Burgh 
Westra  are  summoned  by  Magnus  to  go  down  to  the  Shtjre  to 
.see  the  Boats  go  ofi'  to  the  Deej)  Sea  fishing,  and  'they 
followed  his  stately  step  to  the  Shore  as  the  Herd  of  Deer 


160  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

follows  the  leading  Stag,  -with  all  manner  of  respectful 
Observance.'  This,  coming  in  at  the  close  of  the  preceding 
unaflFected  Narrative,  is  to  me  like  Homer,  whom  Scott  really 
resembles  in  the  simplicity  and  ease  of  his  Story.  ...  I 
finished  the  Book  with  Sadness  ;  thinking  I  might  never  read 
it  again.  .  .  ." 

In  1874,  though  by  that  time  averse  to  leaving 
home,  he  paid  a  pious  pilgrimage  to  Abbotsford.  The 
following  is  his  account  of  it : — 

"  But  I  did  get  to  Abbotsford,  and  was  rejoiced  to  find  it 
was  not  at  all  Cockney,  not  a  Castle,  but  only  in  the  half- 
castellated  style  of  heaps  of  other  houses  in  Scotland  ;  the 
Grounds  simply  and  broadly  laid  out  before  the  windows, 
down  to  a  field,  down  to  the  Tweed,  with  the  woods  which  he 
left  so  little,  now  well  aloft  and  flourishing,  and  I  was  glad. 
I  could  not  find  my  way  to  Maida's  Grave  in  the  Garden, 
with  its  false  quantity, 

"  '  Ad  jiiniiam  Domini,  etc.,' 
which  the  Whigs  and  Critics  taunted  Scott  with,  and  Lock- 
hart  had  done  it.  '  You  know  I  don't  care  a  curse  about  what 
I  write ' ;  nor  about  what  was  imputed  to  him.  In  this, 
surely  like  Shakespeare  :  as  also  in  other  respects.  I  will 
worship  him,  in  spite  of  Gurlyle,  who  sent  nie  an  ugly 
Autotype  of  Knox  whom  I  was  to  worship  instead. 

"  Then  I  went  to  see  Jedburgh  ^  Abbey,  in  a  half-ruined 
corner  of  which  he  lies  entombed — Lockhart  beside  him— a 
beautiful  place,  with  his  own  Tweed  still  running  close  by,  and 
his  Eildon  Hills  looking  on.  The  man  who  drove  me  about 
showed  me  a  hill  which  Sir  Walter  was  very  fond  of  visiting, 
from  which  he  could  see  over  the  Border,  etc.  This  hill  is  be- 
tween Abbotsford  and  Jedburgh  ^ :  and  when  his  Coach  horses, 
who  drew  his  Hearse,  got  there,  to  that  hill,  they  could  scarce 
be  got  on." 

The  last  touch,  the  pathos  of  the  incident,  is  just  the 
sort  of  thing  that  went  straight  to  FitzGerald's  heart. 
He  could  not  forbear  to  give  Carlyle  an  account  of  the 
1  A  slip  for  Dryburgh. 


vn-l  CRITICISM  161 

pilgrimage,  adding :  "  Oh,  I  know  you  think  Scott  a 
brave,  honest,  good-natured  man,  and  a  good  Story- 
teller, only  not  a  Hero  at  all.  And  I  can't  help  know- 
ing and  loving  him  as  such." 

Dickens,  too,  held  a  high  place  in  FitzGerald's  heart. 
He  felt  very  strongly  the  vital  force  of  Dickens  as  a 
creator,  the  way  in  which,  as  by  the  waving  of  a  wand, 
he  could  make  an  incident  live  and  breathe. 

Thus  he  wrote  :  — 

"The  intended  Pathos  is,  as  usual,  missed  ;  but  just  turn  tn 
Little  Donibey's  Funeral,  where  the  Acrobat  in  the  Street 
suspends  his  performance  till  the  Funeral  has  passed,  and  his 
Wife  wonders  if  the  little  Acrobat  in  her  Arms  will  so  fur  out- 
live the  little  boy  in  the  Hearse  as  to  wear  a  Ribbon  through 
his  hair,  following  his  Father's  Calling.  It  is  in  such  Side- 
touches,  you  know,  that  Dickens  is  inspired  to  Create  like  a 
little  God  Almighty." 

He  hardly  knew  Dickens  personally  ;  but  it  was  a 
great  joy  to  him  to  read  Forster's  Life,  and  to  find  not 
only  a  magician  and  a  story-teller,  but  a  man,  who, 
whatever  were  his  faults,  was  full  to  the  brim  of 
generosity  and  human  affection. 

For  Browning  he  had  the  most  limited  sympathy. 
His  dislike  of  the  coarseness  of  workmanship,  the 
deliberate  grotcsqueness  of  phrase,  the  tendency  to 
kick  up  the  heels  and  gambol  about  in  sheer  zest  of 
living,  blinded  FitzGerald,  one  must  suppose,  to  the 
tenderness,  the  amazing  range  of  the  man's  humanit}'. 
He  wrote  to  Frederic  Tennyson  : — 

"  I  see  your  old  friend  Browning  is  in  the  field  again,  with 
another  of  his  odd  titles  :  De  Saisiez— or  Croisic — or  some 
such  luune.  I  tried  to  read  his  Dramatic  Lyrics  again  :  they 
seemed  to  me  Ingoldsliy  Legends." 

In  Italian  he  read  and  loved  Dante  and  lioccaccio ; 
but  could  not  care  for  Tasso  or  Ariosto.     In  Spanish, 

L 


162  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

though  he  spent  so  much  time  and  pains  over  Calderon, 
yet  he  put  Don  Qidxote  almost  at  the  head  of  all  his 
books,  loving,  as  he  said,  even  the  Dictionary  in  which 
he  looked  out  the  words. 

In  French  he  often  read  Montaigne,  and  almost 
adored  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters.  He  took  plea- 
sure in  Beranger,  and  in  Sainte-Beuve ;  Victor  Hugo 
he  did  not  care  for,  or  the  Eomantic  school  generally. 

He  was  never  really  in  .sympathy  with  French 
literature ;  he  desired  above  all  things  simplicity, 
directness,  homeliness  on  the  one  hand,  and  sublimity, 
grandeur,  largeness  on  the  other.  But  all  finesse, 
affectation,  prettiness  and  elegant  trifling  was  against 
his  taste. 

Thus  he  wrote,  comparing  ancient  and  modern 
French  poetry : — 

"  I  never  understand  why  the  old  French  Poetry  is  to  my 
Palate,  while  the  modern  is  not.  Partly,  no  doubt,  because 
of  his  naiveU,  which  is  lost  from  educated  Frenchmen." 

And  his  deliberate  judgments  on  French  literature  are 
prejudiced  by  the  same  feeling : — 

"  So  it  is  with  nearly  all  French  things  ;  there  is  a  clever, 
showy  surface  ;  but  no  Holy  of  Holies  far  withdrawn  ;  con- 
ceived in  the  depth  of  a  mind,  and  only  to  be  received  into 
the  depth  of  ours  after  much  attention." 

And  of  Gil  Bias : — 

"  I  have  failed  in  another  attempt  at  Gil  Bias.  I  believe 
I  see  its  easy  Grace,  humour,  etc.  But  it  is  (like  La  Fontaine) 
too  thin  a  Wine  for  me  :  all  sparkling  with  little  adventures, 
but  no  one  to  care  about  ;  no  Colour,  no  Breadth,  like  my 
dear  Don  ;  whom  I  shall  resort  to  forthwith." 

With  Germany  and  German  literature  he  had  no 
sympathy  at  all.  He  profouiidly  disliked  the  tendency 
to  aesthetic  philosophising,  and  awkward  gush  whicli 
he  believed  to  characterise  the  Teutonic  spirit :— 


VII.]  CRITICISM  163 

"Then  there's  an  account  of  Hallam's  Literature,  with  a 
deal  about  Esthetics  in  it.  Oh  Pollock  !  let  you  and  I 
and  Spedding  stand  out  against  these  damnable  German 
humbugs." 

From  the  above  it  is  easy  to  deduce  FitzGrerald's 
literary  taste.  He  was  indolent  and  eclectic ;  he  can 
hardly  be  called  a  very  wide  reader ;  he  was  not  like 
Macaulay,  an  omnivorous  gorgcr  upon  books ;  such  an 
appetite  indeed  as  Macaulay  indulged  in  reading  is  of 
the  nature  of  intellectual  gluttony.  It  is  a  symptom 
of  a  restlessness  of  brain,  and  reading  becomes  a  mere 
habit,  a  kind  of  mental  sedative  like  smoking  or  card- 
playing,  or  the  occupations  with  Avhich  men  of  active 
minds  ward  off  the  appi'oaches  of  einuu.  FitzGerald 
had  none  of  this  kind  of  restlessness  ;  he  was  essentially 
a  spectatorial  and  meditative  man ;  his  reading  was 
not  merely  to  satiate  a  craving,  but  a  contemplative 
process ;  with  his  deficiency  of  intellectual  initia- 
tive, he  used  the  authors  whom  he  read  somewhat 
like  beaters,  to  start  game  in  the  coverts  of  his  own 
mind ;  he  did  not  devour,  he  sipped  and  tasted,  the 
book  serving  often  as  a  mere  text  which  gave  his  own 
languid  fancy  material  for  dreams ;  ho  was  not  an 
absorbed  reader,  but  a  leisurely  one ;  mind  and  eye 
alike  would  desert  the  page,  and  the  dream-pictures 
would  come  crowding  before  the  inner  sense.  The 
omnivorous  reader  wins  delight  from  throwing  himself 
into  the  author's  mind ;  he  is  like  a  man  who  wanders 
in  a  strange  house  alone,  paces  the  galleries  as  in  the 
palace  of  art,  feeds  upon  what  he  sees  without  ques- 
tioning or  analysing.  But  it  was  far  otherwise  with 
FitzClerald.  He  was  by  instinct  a  connoisseur  ;  he  ap- 
praised, distinguished,  weighed.  He  liked  to  stand  b\', 
as  he  said,  and  know  within  himself  whether  the  thing 
was  well  done,  as  a  man  might  stand  to  watch  a  game. 


164  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

Then,  too,  his  taste  was  all  for  the  detailed,  the 
personal,  the  precise.  He  loved  the  stuff  out  of  which 
life  is  made,  the  pathos,  the  humour,  the  beauty  and 
sorrow  of  the  world.  There  are  very  few  allusions 
to  history  or  to  current  politics  in  his  letters ;  there 
is  a  kind  of  lofty  and  emotional  patriotism,  a  tender 
love  for  the  land  he  lived  in ;  but  here  again  he  grew 
with  advancing  years,  like  most  shy,  inactive  men,  a 
pessimist ;  he  thought  with  sorrow  that  England  was 
coarsening  and  growing  debilitated ;  and  this  because 
he  was  not  himself  in  the  forefront  of  the  battle,  and 
because  such  generous  ideals  as  he  had  nursed  in  his 
youth  were  growing  faded,  giving  place  in  the  ardent 
minds  of  the  rising  generation  to  other  ideals,  not 
less  generous,  but  which  to  FitzGerald  were  simply 
iinfamiliar. 

The  same  process  took  place  in  his  literary  taste ; 
he  acted  on  the  principle  which  Charles  Lamb  enunci- 
ated, that  whenever  a  new  book  came  out  he  read  an 
old  one.  There  was  nothing  progressive  about  Fitz- 
Gerald's  taste ;  he  thought  and  wrote  contemptuously 
of  modern  books.  He  had  not  the  energy  to  follow 
the  new  movements ;  his  sun  set  early  ;  and  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  was  lived  in  a  remembered  light.  And 
to  such  an  extent  did  his  feeling  of  personality  affect 
his  critical  judgment  that  it  was  said  of  him  humor- 
ously that  he  never  really  approved  of  his  friends' 
writings  unless  he  had  seen  them  in  manuscript. 

But  with  all  his  limitations,  and  they  were  many 
and  obvious,  it  still  remains  true  of  FitzGerald  that  he 
was  one  of  those,  who  are  even  fewer  than  we  are  apt 
to  think,  who  have  loved  high  literature  with  a  real 
instinctive  and  passionate  joy.  Even  men  whose 
delight  in  literature  is  true  and  deep  are  apt  to  find 
these  masterpieces  austere  and  even  dreary,  to  breathe 


VII.]  CRITICISM  166 

with  difficulty  in  the  serene  air.  Many  of  us  who 
love  great  literature  can  only  take  it  in  small  doses — 
otherwise  it  becomes  inefiFective  and  unmeaning,  like  a 
liturgical  passage  where  familiarity  veils  the  beauty, 
which  yet  in  a  moment  of  insight  flashes  upon  us  in  all 
its  primal  awe.  But  FitzGerald  could  drink,  day  after 
day,  deep  draughts  from  the  pure  fount,  and  never 
slake  his  thirst. 

His  selection  of  Sophocles  as  probably  the  most 
perfect  of  writers  is  characteristic  of  him.  FitzGerald 
was  in  complete  harmony  with  that  gracious  and 
untroubled  spirit — 

'"  fVKoKoS  fXiV  €v6a8',  tvKoXos  ?>'  (Ktl," 

who  loved  life  and  beauty,  and  yet  stood  apart,  un- 
touched by  the  fever  and  the  dust  of  life,  watching 
humanity  from  some  serener  place,  lovingly  and 
generously,  but  yet  remotely,  as  a  man  may  look 
down  into  the  streets  from  some  high  tower,  and  see 
the  house-roofs  and  the  gardens,  and  with  a  kind  of 
pity  the  busy  little  figures  hurrying  to  and  fro. 

FitzGerald  indeed  did  not  attain  to  that  tranquil 
standpoint;  he  was  too  deeply  concerned,  and  depended 
too  much  on  others  for  that.  He  hungered  and 
thirsted  for  love ;  and  for  the  sweetness  which  evaded 
his  grasp.  Yet  in  his  patience,  his  dignity,  his  un- 
worldlincss,  his  clear  eye  for  lieauty,  he  had  much  in 
common  with  the  serene  tragedian  who  could  look  so 
unflincliingly  into  the  darkest  places  of  the  human 
soul  and  present,  as  in  the  CEdljnis,  the  spectacle  of 
one,  involved  in  the  most  poignant  miseries  that  can 
befall  a  man,  deprived  of  all  that  can  make  life 
tolerable,  yet  in  that  gtim  descent,  surrounded 
by  all  the  most  hideous  and  shapeless  forms  of  woe 
unutterable,   never  losing  an   indomitable   dignity   of 


166  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap.  vu. 

soul.  It  was  to  that  dignity  that  FitzGerald  clung 
with  all  his  might ;  and  although  in  his  sheltered  and 
uneventful  life  there  was  little  room  for  tragedy  on 
an  august  scale,  yet  he  faced  the  sorrow  which  lies 
plentifully  in  wait  for  the  sensitive  spirit  with  a 
quietude  that  was  philosophical  though  never  stoical. 

FitzGerald  never  fell  into  the  error  so  natural  to 
secluded  men  of  taste,  of  mistaking  literature  and  art, 
the  reflections  of  life,  for  life  itself.  He  did  not,  like 
the  Lady  of  Shalott,  live  in  a  self-made  paradise ;  he 
was  for  ever  on  the  road,  mixing  in  his  shy  way  with 
mankind ;  and  it  is  this  which  makes  his  letters,  and 
his  Omar — which  are  the  abiding  fruit  of  his  genius — 
so  great,  because  they  never  lost  hold  of  realities, 
because  he  Avorked  in  the  spirit  of  nature  Avith  the 
invisible  hand  of  art.  Intellect  with  FitzGerald 
always  served  emotion.  He  felt  first  what  he  after- 
Avards  expressed ;  tlie  emotion  never  lagged  behind 
the  expression ;  and  it  is  that,  after  all,  Avhich  diff'eren- 
tiates  artists,  and  makes  them  worthy  to  move  in 
the  procession, 

"  Vv'liere  none  is  first  or  last." 


CHAPTER    VIII 

HABITS — CHARACTER 

FitzGerald's  habits  were  absolutely  simple ;  his  only 
plan  of  action  was  to  do  what  he  liked,  and  not  be 
bothered.  In  earlier  years  he  had  rambled  further 
afield ;  but  in  the  quiet  days  at  Woodbridge  or 
Lowestoft,  he  would  spend  the  morning  over  books 
and  papers,  or  write  a  leisurely  letter;  he  would  stroll 
about,  looking  at  flowers  and  trees,  listening  to  the 
voices  of  birds,  talking  to  his  simple  acquaintances. 
Sometimes  he  would  go  out  in  his  boat,  and  gossip 
with  the  boatmen.  He  seems  to  have  had  no  fixed 
times  for  work,  but  took  it  up  when  it  pleased  his 
fancy.  His  books  lay  all  about  him  in  confusion  ;  he 
had  not  a  large  lil)raiT — some  thousand  volumes — and 
he  Avas  fond  of  pidling  out  leaves  which  he  thought 
otiose.  Sometimes,  if  the  fancy  took  him,  he  would 
call  on  a  neighbour  ;  when  he  came  home  in  the  after- 
noon he  would  play  his  organ  or  sing  to  himself.  Then 
he  would  go  to  his  books  again,  and,  before  his  eye- 
sight failed,  would  read  or  write ;  smoke  a  pipe,  and 
go  to  bed.  All  definite  engagements  he  abhorred  ;  he 
had  the  ner\  ous  and  irritable  temperament  that  finds 
the  chatter  of  irresponsil)lo  people  distracting  and 
annoying;  as  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Cowell : — 

"  I  was  all  yesterday  taking  a  small  Party  (in  the  River,  and 
am  to-day  about  to  do  the  same.  These  little  thin^^s  tire  me 
more  than  you  would  think  possible  :  really,  I  believe,  from 

lf7 


IGS  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

the  talking  and  hearing  talk  all  day,  which  is  so  unlike  my 
way  of  Life.  But  I  am  too  selfish  already  in  keeping  my  little 
Ship  to  myself." 

In  the  early  days  of  FitzGerald's  eremitical  life  he 
made  experiments  in  diet,  and  gradually  settled  down 
into  vegetarianism.  He  felt  at  first  a  loss  of  physical 
power,  but  this  passed  off,  and  he  believed  he  gained  in 
lightness  of  spirit.  He  lived  practically  on  bread  and 
fruit,  mostly  apples  and  pears — even  a  turnip — with 
sometimes  cheese,  or  butter,  and  milk  puddings.  But 
he  was  not  a  bigoted  vegetarian.  To  avoid  an  appear- 
ance of  singularity  he  would  eat  meat  at  other  houses, 
and  provided  it  in  plenty  for  his  guests.  But  the  only 
social  meal  he  cared  to  join  in  was  "  tea,  pure  and 
simple,  with  bread  and  butter."  He  was  abstemious, 
but  not  a  teetotaller ;  and  was  a  moderate  smoker, 
using  clean  clay  pipes,  which  he  broke  in  pieces 
when  he  had  smoked  them  once.  Like  all  solitary 
men,  he  got  more  and  more  attached  to  his  own 
habits,  and  it  became  e\-ery  year  more  difficult  for  him 
to  conform  to  any  other  mode  of  life. 

We  have  a  curious  account  from  one  of  his  boy- 
readers  of  the  way  in  which  FitzGerald,  in  the  days  of 
weak  sight,  spent  his  evenings.  The  1)03'  was  engaged 
to  read  for  two  hours,  from  7.30  to  9.30.  This  par- 
ticular reader  was  so  punctual  that  FitzGerald  vised  to 
call  him  "the  ghost,"  because  he  could  be  depended 
upon  to  make  a  silent  and  precise  entrance  exactly 
when  he  was  expected.  Magazines  and  current  journals 
were  read  first ;  at  the  time  of  the  Tichborne  Trial, 
for  instance,  the  proceedings  of  each  day  were  gone 
through  in  detail.  Then  followed  a  simple  supper. 
Then  a  novel,  or  some  book  like  Bos  well's  Johnson  or 
Pepys'  Diary  would  be  embarked  upon.  FitzGerald's 
temper  was  a  little  uncertain.      He  would  apply  hard 


vni.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  169 

words  to  both  reader  and  author.     If  he  was  bored, 

he  would  fidget  and  say,  "  Oh,  pass  that  d d  rot ! " 

If  he  was  unusually  hard  on  the  reader,  he  would 
apologise  afterwards  or  even  proffer  a  small  tip,  which 
he  called  "insulting  the  boy  in  a  pecuniary  maimer." 

FitzGerald  himself  sat  on  a  low  chair  with  his  feet 
on  the  fender,  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  He 
invariably  wore  his  tall  hat,  only  removing  it  occasion- 
ally to  get  a  red  silk  handkerchief  out  of  it.  He  Avould 
hold  his  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  or  a  paper-knife;  if  he 
was  interested  he  would  sit  silent,  stroking  his  beard 
with  the  paper-knife ;  if  he  was  not  interested  he 
would  make  endless  interruptions. 

FitzGerald's  pleasures  and  preferences  were  of  the 
simplest  kind.  He  had  an  almost  childish  delight  in 
bright  colours,  a  thing  which  is  said  to  be  rare  in 
light-eyed  men.  His  favourite  flowers  were  the  nas- 
turtium, the  geranium,  the  convolvulus — -"the  morning 
glory" — -with  its  purple  or  white  trumpets,  the  mari- 
gold, not  only  for  its  bold  hues,  but  for  its  courage  in 
living  the  winter  through.  He  loved  the  garish  tints 
of  1)right  curtains  and  carpets,  the  phunage  of  gay 
birds,  cocks  and  pheasants,  the  splendours  of  butterflies 
and  moths,  anything  that  could  warm  and  invigorate 
the  eye  and  heart. 

Thus  he  speaks  of  looking  from  the  river  on  the 
crops,  "as  they  grow  green,  yellow,  russet,  and  arc 
finally  carried  away  in  tlie  red  and  blue  waggons  with 
the  sorrel  horse."  A  parti-coloured  mop  that  he  had 
bought  for  household  purposes  was  so  pleasing  a  fount 
of  colour  that  it  stood  for  years  in  his  room.  He  had 
the  same  delight  in  sweet,  cheerful,  and  tunable  sounds. 
He  liked  the  crowing  of  e<icks,  the  notes  of  brisk 
birds.  Of  the  blackbird  he  said  that  its  song 
"seemed   so  jolly  and  the   note  so  proper  from   that 


170  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

golden  bill  of  his."  The  nightingale  he  cared  for  less, 
saying  whimsically  that  at  the  time  she  chose  to  dis- 
course she  "ought  to  be  in  bed  like  the  rest  of  us." 
He  liked  the  sound  of  bells,  the  -vnnd  in  the  trees,  the 
rattle  of  ropes,  the  sharp  hiss  of  moving  seas.  In  all 
of  these  things  he  had  the  perception  of  quality,  of 
essence,  of  individuality  clearly  defined. 

FitzGerald  was  photographed  in  1873,  when  he  was 
nearly  sixty-four,  l^y  Messrs.  Cade  and  White  of 
Ipswich.  He  named  one  of  the  two  portraits  taken, 
the  "philosopher"  portrait,  and  the  other  the  "states- 
man "  portrait.  In  both,  the  high  domed  forehead  is 
quite  bald,  and  the  hair  grows  long  and  limp  over  his 
collar.  He  has  thin  whiskers.  Both  the  pictures 
have  an  expression  of  fatigue.  The  "philosopher's" 
eyes  are  cast  down ;  but  in  the  "  statesman  "  portrait 
they  are  upturned,  and  have  a  dim,  sunken  look ;  the 
eyelids  are  half-shut,  testifying  to  weakness  of  sight. 
The  cheeks  are  somewhat  hollow ;  the  nose  finely 
cut  and  inclined  to  aquiline ;  the  broad,  mobile  mouth, 
with  its  big  lips,  is  much  depressed  at  the  corners, 
giving  the  face  a  Avistful  and  regretful  look.  There 
is  a  strongly  marked  dimple  in  the  chin.  It  is  a 
somewhat  indolent  face,  and  has  an  expression  of 
vague  trouble — not  the  face  of  a  successful  or  even  of 
a  contented  man.  Some  allowance  must  no  doubt 
be  made  for  the  fact  that  to  be  photographed  was 
obviously  a  trying  ordeal  to  FitzGerald ;  but  a  life- 
history  is  written  legibly  upon  it.  We  can  see  the 
dreamer  of  dreams,  the  sad  dignity  of  one  who  saw 
clearly  and  without  illusion  the  dark  background  of 
life.  It  is  the  face  of  one  with  great  intellectual 
power,  but  dogged  by  a  deep-seated  irresolution  and 
conscious  of  a  certain  failure  of  aim.  But  it  has 
too  a  very  sweet  and  tender  look,  the  look  of  one  who 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  171 

has  loved  much,  and  whom  suffering  has  not  made 
either  cold  or  hard,  though  he  has  found  the  world 
too  strong. 

Such  was  FitzGerald  near  at  hand.  To  those  who 
saw  him  abroad,  he  appeared  a  tall,  dreamy-looking 
man,  blue-eyed,  Avith  large,  sensitive  lips,  and  a  melan- 
choly expression  ;  his  face  tanned  with  exposure  to  the 
sun ;  moving  his  head  as  he  walked  with  a  remote, 
almost  a  haughty  air,  as  though  he  guarded  his  own 
secret;  strong  and  active  from  much  exercise,  yet 
irresolute  in  his  movements ;  with  straggling  grey 
hair,  and  slovenly  in  dress,  wearing  an  ancient,  bat- 
tered, black-banded,  shiny-edged,  tall  hat,  round  which 
he  would  in  windy  weather  tie  a  handkerchief  to  keep 
it  in  its  place  ;  his  clothes  of  baggy  blue  cloth,  as  though 
he  were  a  seafarer,  his  trousers  short  and  his  shoes 
low,  exhibiting  a  length  of  white  or  grey  stockings. 
AVith  an  unstarched  white  shirt-front,  high,  crumpled, 
stand-up  collars,  a  big,  black  silk  tie  in  a  careless 
bow ;  in  cold  weather  trailing  a  green  and  black  or 
grey  plaid  shawl ;  in  hot  weather  even  walking  bare- 
foot, with  his  boots  slung  to  a  stick.  He  never  carried 
an  umbrella  exce])t  in  the  heaviest  rain.  Such  was 
the  inconsequent  appearance  presented  by  FitzGerald 
at  the  age  of  sixty.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that 
this  costume  was  not  so  strange  in  the  sixties  as  it 
would  be  at  the  present  day.  Indeed,  its  strangeness 
then  principally  consisted  in  the  fact  that  it  was  an 
unusual  combination  of  formality  and  informality. 

Everything  about  him  bore  the  mai'k  of  strong 
unconventionality  ;  and  it  is  strange  how  men  who  love 
their  own  ways,  and  desire  to  live  in  the  world  rather  as 
ghosts  than  men,  so  often  fail  to  understand  that  con- 
formity to  conventional  usage  is  often  the  best  and 
safest  disiruisc. 


172  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

But  FitzGerald  had  a  radical  abhorrence  of  conven- 
tional things ;  he  was  impatient  of  the  least  hint  of 
tyranny ;  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  on  returning 
from  a  cruise  in  the  Deben,  he  could  not  wait  till  the 
boat  drew  to  land,  but  would  generally  step  out  in  the 
shallow  water,  wetting  himself  to  the  knees.  There 
ran  indeed  through  all  his  habits  a  certain  want  of  self- 
control  that  is  of  the  nature  of  madness — the  madness 
that  he  so  often  claimed  as  the  inheritance  of  his 
family — a  species  of  childish  surrender  to  the  whim 
of  the  moment,  an  absence  of  self-command. 

His  relations  with  other  people  are  characterised  b}' 
the  same  whimsical  self-will.  FitzGerald  had  an  extra- 
ordinary fund  of  sentiment  in  his  nature ;  "  his  friend- 
ships," as  he  said  of  himself,  "were  more  like  loves." 
He  was  not  only  affectionate,  he  was  deeply  and 
devotedly  loyal  to  his  friends.  Though  he  lost  sight, 
to  a  great  extent,  of  the  comrades  of  his  youth,  because 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  be  a  guest  in  any  house 
where  he  was  not  absolutely  unmolested  and  able  to 
follow  his  own  whims,  yet  he  managed  by  his  letters 
to  keep  the  bond  drawn  close.  Both  Thackeray  and 
Tennyson  declared  that  they  loved  FitzGerald  best  of 
all  their  friends ;  even  Carlyle,  with  all  his  enthusiasm 
for  action,  kept  a  very  warm  corner  in  his  heart  for 
FitzGerald.  But  this  sentiment  had  in  FitzGerald's 
case  a  weaker  side.  He  was  always  taking  fancies,  and 
once  under  the  spell,  he  could  see  no  faults  in  his 
friend.  His  friendship  for  Browne  rose  out  of  one  of 
these  romantic  impulses ;  so  too  his  affection  for  Posh, 
the  boatman ;  for  Cowcll,  and  for  Alfred  Smith  the 
farmer  of  Farlingay  and  Boulge,  who  had  been  his 
protege  as  a  boy.  He  seems,  too,  to  have  been  one  of 
those  whose  best  friendships  are  reserved  for  men  ;  for 
thouijh  he  had  beloved  women  friends  like  Mrs.  Cowell 


viii.]  HABITS-CHARACTER  173 

and  Mrs.  Kemble,  yet  these  are  the  exceptions  rather 
than  the  rule.  The  truth  is  that  there  was  a  strong 
admixture  of  the  feminine  in  FitzGerald's  character. 
As  a  rule  the  friendships  of  men  arc  equal,  unromantic 
comradeships,  which  take  no  account  of  such  physical 
things  as  face  and  gesture  and  voice.  But  FitzGerald 
had  again  an  almost  feminine  observation  of  personal 
characteristics.  Browne's  wholesome,  manly  beauty, 
the  comeliness  of  Alfred  Smith,  the  strength  and 
vigour  of  Posh,  the  splendid  majesty  of  Tennyson,  the 
sweet-tempered  .smile  of  Cowell — all  these  played  their 
part  in  determining  the  devotion  of  FitzGerald. 

But  even  so  his  relations  to  his  friends  had  the  less 
attractive  elements,  such  as  the  contradictory  pettish- 
ness  which  he  lavished  on  Browne,  the  disagreeable 
and  cutting  things  which  he  said  to  him,  to  be  followed 
by  a  tearfvd  repentance ;  the  curious  sense  of  irritable 
dignity  which  used  to  transpose  him  in  a  moment  into 
a  formidable  and  fastidious  gentleman — all  these  are 
referable  to  the  .same  feminine  characteristics,  the 
desire  to  dominate  a  situation,  to  show  a  momentary 
power  at  whatever  cost.  He  could  be  perfectly  easy 
and  familiar  with  unaffected  people ;  he  could  sit, 
chat,  smoke,  take  his  meals  with  boatmen,  farmers, 
and  tradespeople.  But  he  was  thoroughly  uncertain 
and  capricious  in  his  behaviour.  He  could  thank  a 
stranger  with  almost  exaggerated  gratitude  for  a  little 
service  done  him,  and  he  could  at  the  same  time  say  to 
a  Woodbridge  neighbour  who  greeted  him  with  a 
genial  Good-morning,  "I  don't  know  you!"  because 
they  had  ne\'er  been  formally  introduced.  When  the 
rector  of  Woodbridge  visited  him  and  said,  "  I  am 
sorry,  Mr.  FitzGerald,  that  I  never  see  you  at  church," 
he  could  reply  with  Johnsonian  rotundity,  "Sir,  you 
might  have  conceived  that  a  man  has  not  come  to  my 


174  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

years  without  thinking  much  on  those  things.  1  believe 
I  may  say  that  I  have  reflected  on  them  fully.  You 
need  not  repeat  this  visit."  Again,  he  could  torment 
even  his  beloved  sailor-folk  in  the  same  way.  John 
Green  of  Aldeburgh,  a  boatman,  said  that  on  one 
occasioi  he  had  showed  himself  very  attenti^'e  to 
FitzGerald,  doing  this  and  that  without  orders. 
"  I  suppose  you  think  you  Ve  got  the  Prince  of  Wales 
here,"  said  FitzGerald.  The  next  time  that  they  were 
together,  Green  held  back.  "  I  suppose  I  'm  not  worth 
waiting  on,"  said  FitzGerald. 

Though  much  annoyed  by  any  discourtesy  shown 
him  by  others,  he  was  by  no  means  invariably  cour- 
teous himself.  He  invited  a  bookseller,  Mr.  Eead  of 
Woodbridge,  whose  shop  he  often  visited,  to  dinner 
on  one  occasion.  Mr.  Read  appeared  at  the  appointed 
time,  and  was  sturdily  refused  admittance.  He  re- 
monstrated in  vain,  and  finally  returned  home  in 
considerable  vexation.  On  the  following  day  he 
receiA'ed  a  note  from  FitzGerald  which  did  not  mend 
matters.  "I  saw  you  yesterday  when  you  called," 
FitzGerald  wrote,  "but  I  was  not  fit  for  company, 
and  felt  that  I  could  not  be  bothered." 

He  was  capable  of  administering  a  humorous  rebuke, 
if  necessary.  On  one  occasion,  in  early  life,  he  was 
present  at  a  gathering  of  friends  ;  one  of  the  company, 
who  was  fond  of  titled  society,  aired  his  acquaintance 
^vith  people  of  importance,  and  told  pointless  anecdotes 
of  distinguished  friends.  FitzGerald  listened  with  an 
appearance  of  deep  melancholy,  and  finally  rose  to  his 
feet;  he  lighted  a  bedroom  candle,  and  at  the  door, 
standing  candle  in  hand,  with  a  look  of  hopeless  dejec- 
tion, said,  "I  once  knew  a  lord  too,  but  he  is  dead." 

For  all  his  philosophy,  he  was  very  quick  to  I'csent 
the  smallest  familiarity  which  he  felt  to  be  undue ; 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  176 

indeed  a  fondness  for  making  people  uncomfortable  is 
characteristic  of  rather  childish  natures,  who  above  all 
things  desire  to  make  themselves  felt. 

He  was  always  impatient  of  being  interfered  with 
when  his  thoughts  were  occupied ;  one  evening  when 
his  boy  was  reading  to  him,  FitzGerald  pottered  about, 
turning  over  books  and  papers,  searching  for  some- 
thing. The  boy  offered  his  help  to  look  for  the  missing 
object ;  FitzGerald  refused  the  proffered  assistance, 
adding  pettishly,  "That  is  just  about  the  way  I  shall 
get  to  heaven,  I  suppose,  searching  for  what  I  cannot 
find." 

When  he  was  walking  along  the  road  or  the  street 
with  a  companion  he  would  get  so  much  absorbed  in 
bis  own  thoughts  that  if  he  was  addressed  he  would 
answer  in  a  querulous  voice  as  though  annoyed  by 
impertinent  interruptions.  His  husky  voice,  with 
a  curious  deflection  of  tone  at  the  end  of  his 
sentences,  was  highly  characteristic.  "  He  used  to 
speak,"  said  Mowbray  Donne,  "like  a  cricket  ball  with 
a  break  in  it,"  or  "like  a  wave  falling  over — a  Suffolk 
wave."  This  inaccessibility,  accompanied  by  a  good 
deal  of  hauteur  of  manner,  was  even  displayed  to  his 
nearest  friends.  Miss  Crabbe  said  of  him  that  he  was  a 
distant  and  punctilious  man  ;  "I  think,"  she  said,  "we 
all  stood  in  awe  of  him,  and  my  impression  was  that 
he  was  a  proud  man ;  and,  like  many  proud  people, 
didn't  mind  at  all  doing  things  that  many  people 
wouldn't  do,  such  as  carrying  his  bouts  to  be  mended." 
She  add.s  that  he  never  seemed  liglit-hcarted,  but  always 
oppressed  with  a  kind  of  brooding  melancholy. 

Though  self-indulgent  himself  in  many  Avays,  he  dis- 
liked any  apparent  grossness  of  enjoyment  in  others. 
"He  had  a  vein,"  wrote  Cowell,  "of  strong  scorn  of 
all   self-indulgence  in   him."       When  an  aeijuaintance 


176  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

who  had  been  having  a  glass  of  wine  in  his  company 
left  the  room,  FitzGerald  said,  with  an  air  of  great 
disgust,  "Did  you  notice  how  he  took  up  his  glass?  I 
am  sure  he  likes  it.     Bah  !  " 

At  the  same  time  he  was  full,  in  certain  moods,  of 
geniality  and  kindness.  He  loved  to  provide  expensive 
and  even  elaborate  entertainments  for  his  fisherman 
friends.  He  was  whimsically  generous  with  his  money  ; 
he  would  advance  loans  in  cases  which  he  thought  to 
be  deserving,  and  refuse  to  be  repaid.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  not  popular  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  he  was 
thought  highly  eccentric,  and  the  words  "dotty "and 
"soft"  were  freely  applied  to  him  by  the  country- 
people.  He  was  aware  of  this  himself,  and  often  con- 
soled himself  by  saying  frankly  that  all  FitzGeralds 
were  mad. 

The  truth  is,  that  though  a  man  of  great  intellectual 
power,  much  nobleness  and  tenderness  of  character,  he 
was  not  cast  quite  enough  in  the  ordinary  mould  for 
his  OAvn  convenience.  He  just  did  not  possess  the 
ordinary  hold  on  the  conventional  methods  and  usages 
of  life  which  is  accepted  as  the  test  of  the  capacity  for 
simple  citizenship.  Many  people  are  fond  of  their  own 
habits  and  their  own  ways.  But  when  this  tendency 
is  pursued  so  far  that  a  man  constantly  deviates  in 
small  points  from  the  habits  of  ordinary  people,  he  is 
bound  to  acquire  a  reputation  for  eccentricity  which 
vitiates  his  influence  and  causes  him  to  be  regarded 
with  a  certain  compassionate  contempt.  We  who 
have  the  opportunity  of  looking  deeper  may  resolutely 
disregard  this  in  the  light  of  his  high  achievements  and 
his  great  friendships.  But  the  fact  remains  that  this 
uncertainty,  this  fitfulness,  this  helplessness,  as  he 
himself  called  it,  was  a  sign  of  weakness  rather  than  of 
strencrth. 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  177 

FitzGerald  rather  drifted  into  than  deliberately 
adopted  his  loosely  strung  mode  of  life.  He  con- 
stantly deplored  the  absence  of  practical  activities  in 
his  own  existence,  and  pressed  the  advisability  of 
action  on  his  friends.  "  Slic  Avishes  to  exert  herself," 
he  wrote  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  de  Soy  res,  "which  is  the 
highest  wish  a  FitzGerald  can  form."  No  doubt  he 
also  wished  to  exert  himself ;  Imt  his  attitude  may 
remind  us  of  the  story  told  by  the  naturalist  Buckland, 
of  the  monkey  that  crept  into  the  big  kettle  that  had 
just  been  set  on  the  fire,  finding  the  water  agreeably 
warm  ;  and  then,  as  the  temperature  increased,  made 
some  attempts  to  extricate  himself,  but  found  the 
contrast  of  the  outer  air  each  time  so  distressing,  that 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  face  it ;  and  ended  by  being 
nearly  boiled  alive. 

I  suppose  that  FitzGerald  did  not  realise,  until  it 
was  too  late,  that  practical  life  was  becoming  more 
impossible  to  him  every  year ;  he  stood,  as  it  were, 
shivering  on  the  brink,  half  hoping  that  something 
might  determine  a  stc})  which  he  had  not  the  courage 
spontaneously  to  take.  At  last  he  resigned  himself  to 
his  fate,  and  devoted  himself  to  warding  off  as  far  as 
possil)le  the  shadow  of  ennui,  and  the  assaults  of 
melancholy. 

And  a  melancholy  life  it  was.  "  Ilis  life,"  said  one 
of  his  friends,  "is  a  succession  of  sighs,  each  stifled 
ere  half  uttered  ;  for  the  uselessness  of  sighing  is  as 
evident  to  him  as  the  reason  of  it.  ' 

But  in  this  we  cannot  acquit  liini  of  a  certain 
lack  of  moral  courage.  We  may  justify  a  man  who, 
recognising  in  himself  certain  powers  and  aptitudes, 
deliberately  adopts  a  mode  of  life,  however  uncon- 
ventional, in  which  such  powers  have  free  i)lay.  But 
Fit/Gerald's  choice  was  not  a  di'lil)crate  one.      He  jnit 


178  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

off  the  decision  from  month  to  month,  and  from  year 
to  year,  till  there  was  nothing  left  to  decide.  Again, 
there  is  a  still  further  lack  of  self-respect  to  be  con- 
demned in  his  shabby,  desultory,  slovenly  habits  of  life. 
A  hermit  who  is  deliberately  dirty  and  uncomfortable, 
because  he  attaches  a  certain  moral  weight  to  the 
avoidance  of  all  the  conveniences  and  conventionalities 
of  life,  may  be  admired  at  a  distance,  though  his  ad- 
mirers may  shun  personal  contact.  He  is  at  all  events 
the  victim  of  a  theory.  But  there  is  not  so  much  to  be 
said  for  a  man  like  FitzGerald,  who  had  the  instincts 
of  a  gentleman,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  usages  of  the 
world.  It  may  be  tiresome  to  be  shaved  and  brushed 
and  decently  habited  ;  but  the  man  who  cannot  sustain 
the  trouble  involved  in  arriving  at  this  result  is  a 
social  malingerer.  Austerity  is  one  thing  and  sloven- 
liness is  another.  The  most  that  can  be  said  for 
FitzGerald  is  that  his  sloppiness  was  innocent.  But 
it  was  not  only  a  superficial  sloppiness ;  it  penetrated 
the  mind  and  character  as  well ;  and  though  no 
criticisms  can  derogate  from  the  abundant  charm,  the 
delicate  tenderness,  the  refinement,  the  sweetness,  the 
fancy,  the  humour  of  the  man,  yet  it  is  impossible  in 
reading  his  letters  to  resist  the  wish  that  he  would,  so 
to  speak,  pull  himself  together.  One  feels  that  the  fine 
qualities  of  his  mind  and  character  would  have  gained 
rather  than  have  suffered  by  a  little  more  discipline, 
a  little  more  self-control. 

The  possibilities  of  such  a  life  as  ho  led  were  great. 
FitzGerald  enjoyed  absolute  liberty,  and  never  felt 
the  pressure  of  pecuniary  anxieties.  But  by  his  want 
of  method,  his  whimsical  pettishness,  his  lack  of 
initiative  and  diligence,  his  slovenliness,  he  somehow 
failed  to  make  his  life  a  wholly  dignified  one. 

No  one  ever  wrote  witli  more  insight  than   Fitz- 


vin.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  179 

Gerald  of  the  delights  and  pains  of  the  idle  life.  And 
this  is  what  perhaps  saddens  one  most — that  he  saw 
his  own  case  with  absolute  lucidity,  and  Avas  under  no 
delusions  in  the  matter.  He  deprecated  any  attempt 
to  confer  upon  him  a  dignity  to  which  he  laid  no  claim. 
He  wrote  to  F.  Tennyson  : — 

"It  really  gives  lue  pain  to  hoar  you  or  any  one  else  call 
me  a  philosopher,  or  any  good  thing  of  the  sort.  I  am  none, 
never  was  ;  and,  if  I  pretended  to  be  so,  was  a  hypocrite. 
Some  things,  as  wealth,  rank,  respectability,  I  don't  care  a 
straw  about  ;  but  no  one  can  resent  the  toothache  more,  nor 
fifty  other  little  ills  beside  that  flesh  is  heir  to.  But  let  us 
leave  all  this." 

At  first,  perhaps,  he  was  inclined  to  take  up  a  more 
philosophical  standpoint;  to  think  of  himself  as  a 
shadow-haunted  dreamer.  It  is  true  that  his  life 
seemed  very  purposeless ;  and  yet  the  purposes  to 
which  he  saw  others  devote  their  lives  seemed  to  him 
more  dreary  and  unsubstantial  still,  and  not  more 
innocent.  He  wrote,  in  1839,  to  Bernard  Barton,  after 
giving  a  description  of  his  occupations  : — 

"...  For  all  which  idle  ease  I  think  I  nuist  l>c  damned. 
I  begin  to  have  dreadful  suspicions  that  this  fruitless  way  of 
life  is  not  looked  upon  with  satisfaction  by  tlie  open  eyes 
above.  One  really  ought  to  dip  for  a  little  misery  :  perhaps 
however  all  this  ease  is  only  intended  to  turn  sour  by-and- 
bye,  and  so  to  poison  one  by  the  very  nature  of  self-indulgence. 
Perhaps,  again,  as  idleness  is  so  very  great  a  trial  of  virtue, 
the  idle  man  who  keeps  liimself  tolerably  chaste,  etc.,  may 
deserve  the  highest  reward  :  the  more  idle,  the  more  deserv- 
ing. Keally  I  don't  jest  :  but  I  don't  propound  these  things 
as  certain." 

Yet  there  was  no  one  who,  from  sad  and  listless 
experience,  could  speak  so  forcibly  and  directly  of  the 
need  of  activity,  the  stinnilus  of  practical  life.  Thus 
he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Browne  : — 


180  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

"  I  can  vouch  with  all  the  rest  whom  I  have  known  like 
myself,  that  there  is  no  happiness  but  with  some  settled  plan 
of  action  before  one." 

And  again  to  W.  F.  Pollock  : — 

"  I  have  been  all  my  life  apprentice  to  this  heavy  business 
of  idleness  ;  and  am  not  yet  master  of  my  craft ;  the  Gods  are 
too  just  to  suffer  that  I  should." 

And  again,  Avith  the  thought  in  his  mind  that  so 
much  of  the  activity  he  saw  about  him  was  mere  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit : — 

"  I  believe  I  love  poetry  almost  as  much  as  ever  :  but 
then  I  have  been  suffered  to  doze  all  these  years  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  old  childish  habits  and  sympathies,  without  being 
called  on  to  more  active  and  serious  duties  of  life.  I  have 
not  jiut  away  childish  things,  though  a  man.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  this  visionary  inactivity  is  better  than  the  mis- 
chievous activity  of  so  mauj'  I  see  about  me  ;  not  better  than 
the  useful  and  virtuous  activity  of  a  few  others  :  John  Allen 
among  the  number." 

And  in  the  same  strain  : — 

"  They  say  it  is  a  very  bad  Thing  to  do  Nothing  :  but  1 
am  sure  that  is  not  the  case  with  those  who  are  born  to 
Blunder  ;  I  always  find  that  I  have  to  repent  of  what  I  have 
done,  not  what  I  have  left  undone  ;  and  poor  W.  Browne 
used  to  say  it  was  better  even  to  repent  of  what  [was]  uud(jne 
than  done." 

But  he  could  urge  the  activity  he  could  not  practise 
upon  others.     He  wrote  to  W.  H.  Thompson  : — 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right  about  an  Apprenticeship  in  Red 
Tape  being  necessary  to  make  a  Man  of  Business  :  but  is  it 
too  late  in  Life  for  you  to  buckle  to  and  screw  yourself  up  to 
condense  some  of  your  Lectures  and  scholarly  Lore  into  a 
Book  ?  By  '  too  late  in  Life '  I  mean  too  late  to  take  Heart 
to  do  it.'"'" 

Then   when   he  tried   to  rouse    himself,    and   took 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  181 

a  taste  of  London  bustle,  his  heart  drew  him  back 
to  the  country.  He  wrote  to  Bernard  Barton  in 
1842:— 

"  In  this  l)ig  London,  all  full  of  intellect  and  pleasure  and 
business,  I  feel  pleasure  in  dipping  down  into  the  country,  and 
rubbing  my  hand  over  the  cool  dew  upon  the  pastures,  as  it 
were.  I  know  very  few  people  here  :  and  care  for  fewer  ; 
I  believe  I  should  like  to  live  in  a  small  house  just  outside 
a  pleasant  English  town  all  the  days  of  my  life,  making  myself 
nsefid  in  a  humble  way,  reading  my  books,  and  playing  a 
rubber  of  whist  at  night.  But  England  cannot  expect  long 
such  a  reign  of  inward  quiet  as  to  suffer  men  to  dwell  so 
easily  to  themselves.  But  Time  will  tell  us  : 
"  '  Come  what  come  may, 
Time  and  the  Hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day.'  " 

And  when  he  was  content,  he  managed  to  get  rid 
of  misgivings.  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Charlesworth  in 
18  i4  :— 

"  I  get  radishes  to  cat  for  breakfast  of  a  morning  :  with 
them  comes  a  savour  of  earth  that  brings  all  the  delicious 
gardens  of  the  world  back  into  one's  soul,  and  almost  draws 
tears  from  one's  eyes." 

Or  again,  to  Frederic  Tennyson,  in  a  still  more 
exalted  mood  : — 

"I  remember  you  did  not  desire  to  hear  about  my  garden, 
which  is  now  gorgeous  wish  large  red  j)oppics,  and  lilac  irises 
— satisfactory  colouring  :  and  the  trees  murimir  a  continuous 
soft  chorna  to  tJie  solo  xchirJi  vnj  t^oitl  disirnirsts  irtthin.'' 

But  thou  the  dreary  round  of  life  would  settle  down 
upon  him.      IIo  wrote  to  ^\^  F.  Follock  :  — 

"Oh,  if  you  were  tn  lu'ar  '  ^\'he^o  and  nil  where  is  my 
Soldier  Laddie  g(ine']ilayed  every  throe  hours  iti  a  languid 
way  by  the  Chiuu\s  of  Woodbridge  Churcli,  wouldn't  you 
w^ish  to  hang  yoiu'self?  On  Sundays  we  have  the  'Sicilian 
Mariner's  Hymn' — very  slow  indeed.  I  see,  however,  by  a 
Handbill  in  the  Grocer's  Shop  ihat  a  Man  is  going  to  lecture 


182  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

on  the  Gorilla  in  a  few  weeks.     So  there  is  something  to  look 
forward  to." 

The  thought  which  paralysed  FitzGerald,  with  the 
strong  instinct  for  perfection  which  he  had,  Avas  that 
his  own  equipment  was  so  slight  and  one-sided.  He 
wanted  time,  time  to  study  and  amass  knowledge,  and 
then  time  to  arrange  it.     He  wrote  to  Allen  : — 

"  I  don't  know  any  one  who  has  thought  out  anything  so 
little  as  I  have.  I  don't  see  to  any  end,  and  should  keep  silent 
till  I  have  got  a  little  more,  and  that  little  better  arranged." 

But  life  seemed  so  short,  and  the  perplexity  so  great, 
that  he  found  himself  reduced  to  despair  at  the  thought 
of  all  the  lines  of  thought  that  had  to  be  mastered,  the 
systems  that  had  to  be  harmonised. 

He  wrote  to  Cowell  in  one  of  these  moods  : — 

"...  A  hook  is  to  me  what  Locke  says  that  watching  the 
hour  hand  of  a  clock  is  to  all ;  other  thoughts  (and  those  of 
the  idlest  and  seemingly  most  irrelevant)  will  intnidc  between 
my  vision  and  the  written  words  :  and  then  I  have  to  read 
over  again  ;  often  again  and  again,  till  all  is  crossed  and 
muddled.  If  Life  were  to  be  very  much  longer  than  is  the 
usual  lot  of  men,  one  would  try  very  hard  to  reform  this 
lax  habit,  and  clear  away  such  a  system  of  gossamer  associa- 
tion :  even  as  it  is,  I  try  to  turn  all  wandering  fancy  out  of 
doors,  and  listen  attentively  to  Whately's  Logic,  and  old 
Spinoza  still  I " 

Sometimes  he  dropped  into  a  mood  of  pettish 
pessimism  ;  and  nothing  better  illustrates  his  aloof- 
ness from  life  than  that  his  dislike  of  the  new  man- 
nerisms of  talk  and  society,  which  he  began  to 
encounter,  should  have  seemed  to  him  not  matters  of 
indifference,  but  food  for  the  profoundest  melancholy. 
That  is  the  inevitable  penalty  which  fastidious  men 
who  stand  apart  from  the  rapid  current  of  life  have 
to  pay. 


vin.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  183 

Yet  he  could  sometimes  rise  into  a  higher  and  more 
hopeful  vein,  but  too  rarely.  He  wrote  to  F.  Tenny- 
son : — 

"  In  the  meantime,  all  goes  on  toward  better  and  better,  as 
is  my  firm  belief :  and  humanity  grows  clear  by  flowing, 
(very  little  profited  by  any  single  sage  or  hero)  and  man  shall 
have  wings  to  fly  and  something  nmch  better  than  that  in  the 
end.  .  .  ." 

Of  practical  politics  FitzGerald  took  but  little 
heed.  Tennyson  once  said  with  much  perspicacity  that 
l)atriotism  was  not  nearly  so  common  a  virtue  as  was 
supposed ;  but  it  is  probably  equally  true,  from  a 
different  point  of  view,  that  it  is  far  more  common 
than  one  would  imagine.  Love  of  liberty  and  love  of 
country  are  so  much  taken  for  gi-antcd  by  Englishmen 
that  it  does  not  occur  to  them  to  indulge  in  protesta- 
tions on  the  subject.  Just  as  a  normal  man  is  not 
conscious  of  health  luitil  he  begins  to  lose  it,  so  the 
silence  of  Englishmen  on  these  points  may  be  taken 
as  a  sign  that  neither  the  freedom  of  the  individual 
nor  the  independence  of  England  has  been  of  late 
years  seriously  endangered.  FitzGerald  did  not  con- 
cern himself  with  the  details  of  politics.  "Don't  write 
politics,"  he  wrote  to  F.  Tennyson  in  1853;  "I  agree 
with  you  beforehand."  But  still  he  had  a  very  deep 
and  true  devotion  to  his  country,  Avhicli  only  occasion- 
ally came  to  the  surface  ;  as  he  wrote  to  Thompson  : — 

"I  like  that  such  men  as  Frederic  [Tennyson]  should  be 
abroad  :  so  strong,  haughty,  and  passionate.  They  keep  up 
the  English  character  abroad.   .  .  ." 

In  a  half-generous,  half-pessimistic  mood,  he  wrote 
to  Frederic  Tennyson  : — 

"Well,  say  as  you  will,  there  is  not,  and  never  was,  such  a 


184  EDWAKD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

country  as  Old  England,  never  were  there  such  a  Gentry  as 
the  English.  They  ■will  be  the  distinguishing  mark  and 
glory  of  England  in  History,  as  the  Arts  were  of  Greece, 
and  War  of  Rome.  I  am  sure  no  travel  woixld  carry  me  to 
any  land  so  beautiful  as  the  good  sense,  justice,  and  liberality 
of  my  good  countrymen  make  this.  And  I  cling  closer  to 
it,  because  I  feel  that  Ave  are  going  down  the  hill,  and  shall 
perhaps  live  ourselves  to  talk  of  all  this  independence  as  a 
thing  that  has  been.  To  none  of  which  you  assent  perhaps. 
At  all  events,  my  paper  is  done,  and  it  is  time  to  have 
done  with  this  solemn  letter.  I  can  see  you  sitting  at  a 
window  that  looks  o;it  on  the  bay  of  Naples,  and  Vesuvius 
with  a  faint  smoke  in  the  distance  :  a  half-naked  man  under 
you  cutting  up  water-melons,  etc.  Haven't  I  seen  it  all  in 
Annuals,  and  in  the  Ballet  of  Masaniello  long  ago  ? " 

As  the  years  Avent  on,  the  hopefulness  decreased, 
the  pessimism  grew  upon  him ;  hut  it  is  clear  that  he 
only  took  a  poetical  view  of  politics.  He  loved  the 
spirit  of  a  land  that  was  so  free  and  so  beautiful,  but 
he  cared  little  for  the  history  of  the  steps  by  which 
her  fair  pre-eminence  had  been  won ;  he  would  have 
agreed  with  Clough  that  for  a  Greek  the  important 
thing  was  that  the  battle  of  Marathon  should  have 
been  fought ;  but  that  to  know  how  and  when  it  had 
been  fought  mattered  little. 

Occasionally  he  plunged  boldly  into  large  philo- 
sophical speculations.  The  opening  panorama  which 
science  appeared  likely  to  reveal  to  men  he  treats  of 
ill  a  lofty  vein  in  a  letter  to  Cowell ; — 

"  Yet,  as  I  often  think,  it  is  not  the  poetical  imagination, 
but  bare  Science  that  every  day  more  and  more  unrolls  a 
greater  Epic  than  the  Jliad  ;  the  History  of  the  "World,  the 
infinitudes  of  Space  and  Time  I  I  never  t;ike  up  a  book  of 
Geology  or  Astronomy  but  this  strikes  mo.  And  when  we 
think  that  Man  nuist  go  on  to  discover  in  the  same  plodding 
Avay,  one  fancies  that  the  Poet  of  to-day  may  as  well  fold  his 


viTi.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  185 

hands,  or  turn  them  to  dig  and  delve,  considering  how  soon 
the  inarch  of  discovery  will  distance  all  his  imaginations,  [and] 
dissolve  the  language  in  which  they  are  uttered.  Martial,  as 
you  say,  lives  now,  after  two  thousand  years  ;  a  space  that 
seems  long  to  us  whose  lives  are  so  brief ;  hut  a  moment,  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  if  compared  (not  to  Eternity  alone)  but 
to  the  ages  which  it  is  now  known  the  world  must  have 
existed,  and  (unless  for  some  external  violence)  nuist  continue 
to  exist.  Lyell,  in  his  book  about  America,  says  that  the  falls 
of  Niagara,  if  (as  seems  certiiin)  they  have  worked  their  way 
back  southwards  for  seven  miles,  must  have  taken  over 
3r),0<X)  years  to  do  so,  at  the  rate  of  something  over  a  foot  a 
year  I  Sometimes  they  fall  back  on  a  stratum  that  crumbles 
away  from  behind  them  more  easily  :  but  then  again  they 
have  to  roll  over  rock  that  yields  to  them  scarcely  more  per- 
ceptil)ly  than  the  anvil  to  the  serpent.  And  those  very  soft 
strata  which  the  Cataract  now  erodes  contain  evidences  of  a 
race  of  animals,  and  of  the  action  of  seas  Avashing  over  them, 
long  before  Niagara,  came  to  have  a  distinct  current ;  and  the 
rocks  were  compounded  ages  and  ages  before  those  strata  ! 
80  that,  as  Lyell  says,  the  Geologist  looking  at  Niagara  forgets 
even  the  roar  of  its  waters  in  the  contemplation  of  the  awful 
processes  of  time  that  it  suggests.  It  is  not  only  that  this 
vision  of  Time  must  wither  the  Poet's  hope  of  immortality  ; 
but  it  is  in  itself  more  wonderful  than  all  the  conceptions  of 
Dante  and  Milton.'" 

What  he  felt  about  religion  and  religious  specula- 
tion is  not  difficult  to  divijie.  He  was  deeply  stirred, 
it  is  clear,  in  early  days  by  the  strong,  vital  faith  of 
Matthews  the  evangelist  ;  but  the  Itent  of  his  whole 
mind  was  towards  scepticism,  lie  M'as  heaixl  once  in 
his  later  life  murmuring  to  himself  1  lie  words,  "  Though 
your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  tliey  sliall  be  as  white  as  snow; 
though  they  be  red  like  crimson,  they  shall  be  as 
wool';  but  tlie  utterance  is  to  be  attriliuted,  I  believe, 
more  to  a  sense  of  the  haunting  beauty  of  the  words 
thaTt   to  livy  religious  motive.     The  most  precise  and 


186  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

definite  religious  systems,  after  all,  can  only  profess  to 
touch  the  fringe  of  the  deep  and  perennial  mysteries 
of  life.  They  serve  to  brighten  only  the  crescent 
edge  of  the  shadowy  orb,  and  leave  the  dark  tracts 
unrevealed.  The  mystery  of  pain,  of  evil,  of  the 
future  life,  of  the  brevity  of  existence — these  can- 
not be  solved.  The  utmost  that  religion  can  do  is  to 
illuminate  a  few  yards  of  the  glimmering  pathway, 
and  say  that  the  descending  darkling  stair  must  be 
trodden  in  the  light  of  Faith.  But  a  mind  like  Fitz- 
Gerald's  demanded  more  certainty.  Though  he  saw 
clearly  that  he  himself  and  minds  like  his  own,  acute, 
questioning,  unsatisfied  minds,  must  be  condemned  to 
doubt,  he  held  strong  and  sensible  views  on  the 
benefits  of  religion  for  the  community,  for  simpler 
minds  and  hearts.  He  wrote  a  very  remarkable  letter 
to  Carlyle  on  the  subject : — 

"  I  was  very  glad  of  your  letter  :  especially  as  regards  that 
part  in  it  about  the  Derbyshire  villages.  In  many  other  parts 
of  England  (not  to  mention  my  own  Suffolk)  you  would  find 
the  same  substantial  goodness  among  the  people,  resulting  (as 
you  say)  from  the  funded  virtues  of  many  good  humble  men 
gone  by.  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  teach  us  all,  as  you 
have  done,  to  make  some  use  and  profit  of  all  this  :  at  least,  not 
to  let  what  good  remains  to  die  away  under  penury  and  neglect. 
I  also  hope  you  will  have  some  mercy  now,  and  in  future,  on 
the  '  Hebrew  rags '  which  are  grown  offensive  to  you  ;  con- 
sidering that  it  was  these  rags  that  really  did  bind  together 
those  virtues  which  have  transmitted  down  to  us  all  the  good 
you  noticed  in  Derbyshire.  If  the  old  creed  was  so  com- 
mendably  effective  in  the  Generals  and  Counsellors  of  two 
hundred  years  ago,  I  think  we  may  be  well  content  to  let  it 
work  still  among  the  ploughmen  and  weavers  of  to-day  ;  and 
even  to  suffer  some  absurdities  in  the  Form,  if  the  Spirit  does 
well  upon  the  whole.  Even  poor  Exeter  Hall  ought,  I  think, 
to  be  borne  with  ;  it  is  at  least  better  than  the  wretched 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  187 

Oxford  business.  When  I  was  in  Dorsetshire  some  weeks 
ago,  and  saw  chancels  done  up  in  Sky-blue  and  gold,  with 
niches,  candles,  an  Altar,  rails  to  keep  off  the  profane  laity, 
and  the  parson  (like  your  Reverend  Mr.  Hitch  ')  intoning  with 
his  back  to  the  people,  I  thought  the  Exeter  Hall  war-cry  of 
'The  Bible — the  whole  Bible — and  nothing  but  the  Bible'  a 
good  cry  :  I  wanted  Oliver  and  his  Dragoons  to  march  in  and 
put  an  end  to  it  all.  Yet  our  Established  Parsons  (when 
quiet  and  in  their  senses)  make  good  country  gentlemen,  and 
magistrates  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  secure  one  man  of  means  and 
education  in  each  parish  of  England  :  the  people  can  always 
resort  to  Wesley,  Bunyan,  and  Baxter,  if  they  want  stronger 
food  than  the  old  Liturgy,  and  the  orthodox  Discourse.  I 
think  you  will  not  read  what  I  have  written  :  or  be  very 
bored  with  it.     But  it  is  written  now." 

Meanwhile  he   lived   as   best  he  might.      In  such 
current  conceptions  of  religion  he  could  not  rest.     He 
could  but  say  with  a  wistful  aftectation  of  cynicism  : — 
"  Qu'est-ce  que  cela  fait  si  je  m'amuse  1 " 

And  in  the  presence  of  hopeless  failure  and  grief — 
"  I  do  not  know  ;  I  cannot  help  :  and  I  distress  myself 
as  little  as  I  can." 

And  then,  with  a  gentle  tolerance  for  a  life  which 
seemed,  as  he  looked  back  upon  it,  both  ineffective 
and  full  of  mistakes  : — 

"...  I  wait  here,  partly  because  of  Nieces  and  Nephews 
on  either  hand  of  me,  and  partly  to  give  time  for  a  little 
Flower  and  Leaf  to  come  up  inland.  Also,  a  little  absurd 
Lodging  is  so  much  i)leasanter  than  the  grave  House  one 
built.  What  Blunders  one  has  to  look  back  on,  to  be  sure  I 
So  many,  luckily,  that  one  has  ceased  to  care  for  any  one. 
Waljwle  congratulated  himself  on  one  point  :  knowing  what 
he  wanted  :  I  fancy  you  are  wise  in  that  also.  But  for  most 
of  us — 

"  '  Man  is  but  Man,  and  what  he  most  desires, 
Pleases  at  lirst :  tlien  pleases  not ;  then  tires  ! ' " 

^  V.  Carlyle's  Cromwell,  vol.  i.  p.  193  (1st  ed.). 


188  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

It  is,  after  all,  a  melancholy  picture.  Not  without 
loss  can  a  man  withdraw  himself  from  the  world  and 
shirk  the  primal  inheritance  of  labour.  Our  admiration 
of  the  man  and  of  his  best  work  cannot  blind  us  to  the 
fact  that  this  irresolution,  this  languid  lingering  upon 
the  skirts  of  life,  is  not  a  beautiful  nor  an  admirable 
thing.  If  the  sacrifice  had  been  made  in  the  interests 
of  art,  it  would  have  been  different;  but  FitzGerald 
had  no  illusions  on  this  point  either.  He  often  insists 
on  the  cardinal  truth  that  life  is  above  art,  that  art  is 
a  service,  not  a  dominion :  that  art  must  minister  to 
life,  not  life  to  art.  There  is  a  certain  priestly  mood 
Avhich  falls  upon  those  in  whom  the  need  for  creating 
what  is  beautiful  is  veiy  imperious.  FitzGerald  had 
none  of  this ;  he  would  have  laughed  at  it  as  a  species 
of  pretentiousness.  In  this  he  was  not  necessarily  right, 
but  we  are  endeavouring  to  present  his  view  of  the 
case.  The  solemnity  of  AVordsworth,  the  affectation 
of  Tennyson,  were  not  only  mistaken  in  FitzGerald's 
view,  but  slightly  grotesque;  and  thus  we  have  the 
pathetic  spectacle  of  a  man  choosing  to  hold  aloof  from 
life  in  a  way  that  could  only  have  been  justified  if  it 
had  been  the  result  of  a  deliberate  theory,  a  constrain- 
ing vocation.  We  see  him  regretting  his  own  indecision, 
and  urging  on  his  friends  the  imperative  dutj'  of 
taking  a  hand  in  the  game  ;  and  yet  unable  to  put 
his  theories  into  practice,  and  trifling  with  life  in  a 
melajicholy  rather  than  in  a  cynical  spirit.  FitzGerald 
is  thus,  as  I  have  said,  a  Hamlet  of  literature,  clear- 
sighted, full  of  the  sense  of  mystery  and  Avonder  and 
beauty ;  yet  una])le  to  dedicate  himself  to  the  creative 
life,  from  lack  of  a  certain  vitality,  and  from  an  un- 
happy capacity  of  seeing  both  sides  of  a  c^uestion ;  and 
yet  from  indolence  and  irresolution  unable  to  throw 
in  his  lot  with  the  humdrum  cares  and  duties  that. 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  189 

after  all,  bring  peace  and  content  into  the  majority 
of  lives. 

Yet  these  arc  but  the  shadows  of  temperament; 
deep  in  FitzGerald's  heart  lay  an  abundance  of  simple 
treasures.  He  was  loving  and  loyal ;  quietly  and 
unostentatiously  generous ;  indolent  as  he  was,  he 
would  take  endless  trouble  in  details  to  serve  his 
friends.  He  was  pure-minded  with  an  almost  virginal 
delicacy.  "FitzGerald  and  Spedding,"  said  W.  H. 
Thompson,  "were  two  of  the  purest-living  men  among 
my  intimates."  But  besides  the  effusiveness  of  senti- 
ment which  weakened  FitzGerald  for  practical  life, 
there  was  another  tendency  likely  to  beset  a  sensitive 
nature.  He  lived  little  in  the  future,  and  much  in  the 
past.  The  thought  that  a  happy  day  was  passing 
clouded  his  enjoyment  of  it ;  the  remembrance  of 
the  days  that  are  no  more  came  in  like  a  shadow 
l)etween  him  and  the  present.  This  he  endeavoured 
to  meet  by  cultivating  as  far  as  he  could  a  stoical 
attitude.  He  tried,  like  Goethe,  with  the  sensitive 
instinct  for  sparing  himself  pain,  not  to  grieve; 
feeling  that  if  he  dwelt  upon  the  thought  of  death 
or  loss,  it  would  Ijreak  his  burdened  heart.  Thus, 
even  in  the  midst  of  a  tender  and  delicate  re- 
trospect, we  are  checked  as  it  were  by  a  sudden 
chill.  It  was  probably  this  reluctance  to  suffer,  this 
emotional  indolence,  that  deprived  FitzGerald  of  that 
supreme  gift  of  poetry.  It  is  hard  to  say  hoM'  the 
greatest  and  most  sensitive  of  poets  bear  their  grief; 
perhaps  the  secret  is  that,  together  with  the  intensity 
of  suffering,  they  have  a  similarly  strong  ])ower  of 
recuperation.  They  descend  inevitalily  into  the  dark  ; 
and  when  they  have  emerged  again  they  can  say  what 
they  have  seen.  But  even  this  luxury  of  litei-ary 
emotion  was  denied  to  FitzGerald,  because  he  could 


190  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

not  face  the  suffering  that  is  a  necessary  condition  of 
the  song.  Once  in  his  life  he  went  deep  and  bore  the 
spoils  away;  in  Omar  he  faced  the  darkest  thoughts 
that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and  spoke  out. 

But  otherwise  his  literary  occupations  were  planned 
more  to  deaden  than  to  quicken  thought.  He  took 
refuge  in  translations  and  selections.  He  was  too 
restless  to  be  wholly  inactive.  Yet  the  sight  of  perfec- 
tion, of  great  thoughts  nobly  expressed,  did  not  quicken 
him  to  emulation,  but  rather  encouraged  him  to  stand 
aside  and  to  take  refuge  in  judging;  in  knowing  by 
trained  instinct  and  practical  appreciation  how  far 
perfection  had  been  attained. 

I  imagine  that  FitzGerald's  one  haunting  thought 
was  regret.  An  impersonal  regret  for  all  the  beauty 
and  charm  of  the  world  that  flowered  only  to  die ;  and 
a  more  personal  regret  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
put  out  his  powers  to  do  and  to  be.  He  was  over- 
shadowed by  a  constant  sense  of  the  brevity,  the 
fleeting  swiftness  of  time,  the  steady,  irrevocable 
lapsing  of  life  to  death.  Melancholy  takes  many 
forms ;  in  some  it  finds  its  materials  in  anxious  and 
gloomy  forebodings  of  what  the  future  may  bring  or 
take  away ;  with  some  the  present  seems  irremediably 
dreary.  But  FitzGerald  lived  in  a  wistful  regret  for 
the  beautiful  hours  that  were  gone,  the  days  that  are 
no  more.  Tennyson  called  this  feeling  "the  passion 
of  the  past,"  but  said  that  in  his  own  case  it  was  not  a 
sadness  born  of  experience,  but  rather  the  luxurious 
melancholy  of  youth  ;  and  that  with  him  it  tended  to 
diminish  as  the  years  went  on.  But  with  FitzGerald 
it  was,  it  seems,  an  ever-present  sense.  Beneath  and 
behind  the  sweet  sounds  and  sights  of  the  earth  that  he 
loved  so  well,  he  heard  the  sullen  echo  of  a  voice  that 
warned  him  that  all  Avas  passing  away.    "  It  gives  me," 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  191 

he  wrote,  "a  strange  sort  of  Pleasure  to  walk  about 
the  old  Places  among  the  falling  leaves  once  more." 
As  the  golden  light  of  evening  crept  over  the  pastures, 
touching  tree  and  field  with  the  strange  and  sweet 
tranquillity  of  bright  outline  and  lengthened  shadow, 
he  said  within  his  heart  that  it  was  all  exquisitely  and 
profoundly  beautiful,  but  that  the  sweet  hour  was 
numbei-ed  with  the  past  even  as  he  gazed.  All  present 
enjoyment  was  darkened  for  FitzGerald  by  the  pressure 
of  this  insistent  thought.  As  the  sweet  summer  day 
rose,  shone,  waned,  he  wrote  to  Cowell  in  India : — 

"  I  am  sitting  as  of  old  in  my  accustomed  Bedroom,  looking 
out  on  a  LandscajDe  which  your  Eyes  would  drink.  It  is  said 
tliero  has  not  been  such  a  Flush  of  Verdure  for  years  :  and 
they  are  making  hay  on  the  Lawn  before  the  house,  so  as  one 
wakes  to  the  tune  of  the  Mowei-'s  Scythe-whetting,  and  with 
the  old  Perfume  blowing  in  at  open  windows.  .  .  . 

"June  over  !  A  thing  I  think  of  with  Omar-like  sorrow. 
And  the  Hoses  here  are  blowing — and  going — as  abundantly 
as  even  in  Persia.  I  am  still  at  Geldestone,  and  still  looking 
at  Omar  by  an  open  window  which  gives  over  a  Greener 
Landscape  than  yours.'' 

And  in  the  sad  days  of  his  married  life,  dreaming  of 
the  old  congenial  friendships,  he  wrote  to  Cowell : — 

"  Shall  we  ever  meet  again  (  I  think  not  ;  or  not  in  such 
plight,  both  of  us,  as  will  make  Meeting  what  it  used  to  be. 
Only  to-day  I  have  been  opening  dear  old  Salanuin  :  the 
original  Copy  we  bought  and  began  this  time  three  yeai-s  ago 
at  Oxford  ;  witli  all  my  scratclies  of  t^uery  and  Exphination 
in  it,  and  the  Notes  fiom  you  among  the  Leaves.  How  often  I 
think  with  Sorrow  of  my  many  Harshnesses;  and  Imi)atiohees  I 
which  are  yet  more  of  manner  than  Intention,  ^ly  wife  is  sick 
of  hearing  me  sing  in  a  doleful  voice  the  old  (ilee  of  Wlien  shall 
we  Three  Meet  again?'  Especially  the  Stanza,  'Tiiough  in 
foreign  Lands  we  sigh,  Parcht  beneatli  a  hostile  Sky,'  etc. 
How  often  too  I  think  of  the  gnmd  Song  written  by  some 
Scotcli  Ladv,  which  I  singto  myself  for  you  nn  (iaiiges  P.anks  I  ' 


192  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

With  this  personal  sense  of  loss  went  a  deeper  sense 
of  the  endless  pathos  of  the  world,  of  the  sadness 
which  is  yet  in  itself  beautiful.  The  following  frag- 
ment is  like  a  vignette  of  Bewick ;  the  crumbling 
walls,  the  singing  bird,  and  the  old  man  feeling  that 
his  own  feeble  life  was  lapsing  into  ruin  too  : — 

"  I  have  at  last  bid  adieu  to  poor  old  Dunwich  :  the  Robin 
singing  in  the  Ivy  that  hangs  on  those  old  Priory  walls.  A 
month  ago  I  wrote  to  ask  Carlyle's  Niece  about  her  Uncle, 
and  telling  lier  of  this  Priory,  and  how  her  Uncle  would  once 
have  called  me  Dilettante  ;  all  which  she  read  to  him  ;  he 
only  said  '  Poor,  Poor  old  Priory  ! ' " 

He  was  ever  sensitive  to  these  slight,  wistful,  fugitive 
effects :  here  is  a  little  bit  of  sweet  humanity — 
wholesome  and  tender  like  the  man's  own  loving 
heart : — 

"When  I  was  in  Paris  in  1830,  just  before  that  Revolution, 
I  stopped  one  Evening  on  the  Boulevards  by  the  Madeleine  to 
listen  to  a  Man  who  was  singing  to  his  Barrel-organ.  Several 
passing  '  Blouses '  had  stopped  also  :  not  only  to  listen,  but  to 
join  in  the  Songs,  having  bought  little  Libretti  of  the  words 
from  the  Musician.  I  bought  one  too  ;  for,  I  suppose,  the 
smallest  French  Coin  ;  and  assisted  in  the  Song  which  the 
Man  called  out  beforehand  (as  they  do  Hymns  at  Church), 
and  of  which  I  enclose  you  the  poor  little  Copy,  'ie  Bon 
Pasteur,  s'il  vous  plait ' — I  suppose  the  Circumstances  :  the 
'  beau  temps,'  the  pleasant  Boulevards,  the  then  so  amiable 
People,  all  contributed  to  the  effect  this  Song  had  upon  me  ; 
anyhow,  it  has  constantly  revisited  my  memory  for  tliese  forty- 
three  years  ;  and  I  was  thinking,  the  other  day,  touched  me 
more  than  any  of  Beranger's  most  beautiful  Things.  This, 
however,  may  be  only  one  of  '  Old  Fitz's '  Crotchets,  as 
Tennyson  and  othei's  would  call  them." 

And  again  in  the  letter  which  relates  to  the  dcatli 
of  George  Crabbe  of  Bredfield,  which  gives  a  fine 
instance   of   his  so])Cr  irrief,   neither  forced  nor  self- 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  193 

conscious,  he  puts  into  words  that  dreary  sense  of 
sadness  which  all  know,  which  is  aroused  by  the  sight 
of  all  the  little  arrangements  and  furniture  of  a  life, 
the  trifling  objects  of  daily,  familiar  use,  when  that  life 
slips  suddenly  into  the  darkness : — 

"You  may  imagine  it  was  melancholy  enough  to  me  to 
revisit  the  old  house  when  He  who  had  made  it  so  warm  for 
me  so  often  lay  cold  in  his  Coffin  unable  to  entertain  me 
any  more  !  His  little  old  dark  Study  (which  I  called  the 
Cohblery)  smelt  strong  of  its  old  Smoke :  and  the  last 
Cheroot  he  had  tried  lay  three-quarters  smoked  in  its  little 
China  ash-pan.  This  I  have  taken  as  a  Relic,  as  also  a  little 
silver  Nutmeg  Grater  which  used  to  give  the  finishing  Touch  to 
many  a  Glass  of  good  hot  Stuff,  and  also  had  belonged  to  the 
PoetCrabbe.  .  .  ." 

And  in  FitzGerald's  heart,  behind  the  sorrow  of  the 
v/orld,  lay  the  strong  yearning  to  be  loved,  to  be 
remembered,  to  leave  something  which,  when  the  book 
of  life  is  shut,  should  still  mingle  with  the  current  of 
the  world's  life  and  hold  its  place  there. 

"...  It  is  a  very  odd  thini,',  but  quite  true,  I  assure  you, 
that  before  your  letter  came  I  -was  sitting  at  breakfast  alone, 
and  reading  some  of  Moore's  Songs,  and  thinking  to  myself 
how  it  was  fame  enough  to  have  written  but  one  song — air, 
or  words— which  should  in  after  days  solace  the  sailor  at  the 
wheel,  or  the  soldier  in  foreign  places  I — l)e  taken  up  into  the 
life  of  England  !  No  doubt  'The  Last  Hose  of  Summer'  will 
accomplish  this." 

It  may  be  said  that  all  tliis  belongs  to  the  region  of 
hixurious  and  self-conscious  emotion ;  and  that  the 
sorrows  and  activities  of  life  leave  but  little  room  for 
dalliance  with  such  frail  and  wistful  thoughts.  But  if 
so,  then  the  pressure  of  real  life  is  a  hardening  and  a 
coarsening  thing;  and  further,  there  must  be  many, 
even  among  those  who  arc  moving  among  realities,  for 

N 


194  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [ohap. 

whom  in  quiet  hours  such  thoughts  must  lie  in  wait. 
We  may  label  them  unmanly  and  unreal ;  but  it  is  an 
unjust  and  tyrannical  mood  that  would  thus  deal  with 
the  twilight  thoughts  of  the  heart.  Between  the  sun- 
shine and  the  dark  there  are  infinite  gradations,  and  it 
is  in  the  perception  of  these  softer  and  more  delicate 
emotions,  these  thoughts  that  arise  and  are  born  be- 
tween the  darkness  and  the  day,  that  the  incommuni- 
cable essence  of  wonder  and  delight  consists.  And 
whether  we  approve  or  no,  it  was  in  this  half-lit  region 
that  FitzGerald's  life  was  spent.  Some  would  perhaps 
say  that  his  ethical  and  religious  views  were  the  cause 
of  his  half-heartedness.  Thompson,  the  Master  of 
Trinity,  uttered  the  shallow  dictum  that  FitzGerald 
was  a  prisoner  in  Doubting  Castle,  as  though  by  an 
effort  he  might  have  escaped  and  fared  forward.  But 
FitzGerald's  vague  religious  views  were  the  effect  of 
temperament,  and  not  the  cause  of  his  failure.  He 
was  not  one  who  could  take  a  creed  on  trust.  And 
even  a  creed  is,  as  it  were,  only  a  surface  solution,  and 
gives  no  explanation  of  the  dark  mystery  of  life  and 
death,  and  heeds  it  not  except  in  so  far  as  it  can 
trample  over  it  in  courageous  disregard.  "Healing  is 
well,"  FitzGerald  might  have  said,  "but  wherefore 
wounds  to  heal  ] "  A  creed  is  a  refuge  of  ardent  and 
practical  natures,  who  feel  that  they  must  put  in  for 
the  struggle  and  try  to  amend  what  God  somehow 
seems  to  allow  to  be  amiss.  But  one  who  has  no 
power  of  practical  activity  sinks  deeper  and  deepei- 
into  the  darkness  of  the  question  why  so  much  must 
be  amiss,  and  what  all  this  weary  strife  denotes. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  enforced  activity  would 
have  saved  FitzGerald,  but  it  is  certain  that,  given  the 
conditions  of  his  life,  the  shadow  was  inevitable.  As 
FitzGerald  sadly  wrote  in  his  version  of  Tlie  Mighty 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  195 

Magician,  in  lines  where  it  is  hard  to  believe  he  had 
not  himself  in  mind  : — 

"  Well,  each  his  way  and  humour  ;  some  to  lie 
Like  Nature's  sickly  children  in  her  lap, 
While  all  the  stronger  brethren  are  at  play." 

FitzGerald  possessed,  in  a  strong  degree,  a  spec- 
tacular habit  of  mind.  His  failure  in  the  region  of 
practical  activities  was  due  mainly  to  the  fact  that  he 
stood  aloof  from  life,  and  watched  it,  sometimes  with 
a  mournful  wonder,  sometimes  Avith  a  humorous  jest, 
stream  past  him,  the  pictures  taking  shape  and  beconnng 
blurred,  the  groups  gathering  and  dissolving,  as  in 
a  fantastic  dream. 

Thus  he  writes  to  Allen  : — 

"...  i\Iy  brother  John's  wife,  always  delicate,  has  had  an 
attack  this  year,  which  she  can  never  get  over  :  and  while  wc 
are  all  living  in  this  house  cheerfully,  she  lives  in  sejxiratc 
rooms,  can  scarcely  speak  to  us,  or  see  us  :  and  bears  upon  her 
cheek  the  marks  of  death.  She  has  shown  great  Christian 
dignity  all  through  her  sickness  :  was  the  only  cheerful  jjerson 
when  they  supposed  she  could  not  live  :  and  is  now  very 
composed  and  hap])y.  You  say  sometimes  how  like  things 
are  to  dreams  :  or,  as  I  think,  to  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  play. 
80  does  this  place  seem  to  me.  All  our  family,  except  my 
mother,  are  collected  here  :  all  uiy  brothers  and  sisters,  with 
their  wives,  husbands,  and  chililren  :  silting  at  ditierent 
occupations,  or  wandering  about  tlie  grounds  and  gardens, 
discoursing  each  their  separate  concerns,  hut  all  united  into 
one  whole.  Tlie  weather  is  delightful  :  and  wlun  1  see  them 
j)assing  to  and  fro,  and  hear  tlieir  voices,  it  is  like  scenes  of  a 
I)lay.     I  came  here  only  yesterday." 

He  had  no  desire  to  stop  down  and  mingle  with  tlic 
llowing  tide;  still  less  to  modify  or  direct  tlie  action 
of  the  play;  so  he  loitered  apart  in  his  green  garden, 
noting,  approving,  wondering,  moralising,  not  a  man, 
but  the  shadow  ol  a  man. 


196  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

The  instinct  which  lay  deepest  of  all  in  FitzGerald's 
nature  was  the  need  of  affection.  In  early  days  this 
was  so  urgent,  that  he  had  even  no  difficulty  in  giving 
it  voice.  He  wrote  to  Allen,  Avelcoming  a  letter  from 
the  latter : — 

"  It  has  indeed  been  a  long  time  coming  ;  but  it  is  all  the 
more  delicious.  Perhaps  you  can't  imagine  how  wistfully  I 
have  looked  for  it :  how,  after  a  walk,  my  eyes  have  turned 
to  the  table,  on  coming  into  the  room,  to  see  it.  Sometimes 
I  have  been  tempted  to  be  angry  with  you  :  but  then  I 
thought  that  I  was  sure  that  you  would  come  a  hundred  miles 
to  serve  me,  though  you  were  too  lazy  to  sit  down  to  a  letter. 
I  suppose  that  people  who  are  engaged  in  serious  ways  of  life, 
and  are  of  well-filled  minds,  don't  think  much  about  the 
interchange  of  letters  with  any  anxiety  :  but  I  am  an  idle 
fellow,  of  a  very  ladylike  turn  of  sentiment :  and  my  friend- 
ships are  more  like  loves,  I  think. " 

All  through  his  life  we  sec  him  constrained  into 
friendships,  not  the  quiet,  unromantic  friendships  of  an 
ordinary  man,  but  strong,  almost  unbalanced  pre- 
occupations. But  even  these  became,  as  time  went  on, 
more  and  more  difficult  to  maintain^  owing  to  Fitz- 
Gerald's invincible  shyness  in  the  presence  even  of 
those  whom  he  loved,  his  dislike  of  change,  his  increas- 
ing desire  for  seclusion. 

Even  in  the  case  of  the  beloved  Cowcll,  after  his 
absence  in  India,  FitzGerald  had  a  great  difficulty  in 
picking  up  the  dropped  threads.     He  wrote : — 

"...  I  hope  you  don't  tliink  I  have  forgotten  you.  Your 
visit  gave  me  a  sad  sort  of  Pleasure,  dashed  with  the  Memory 
of  other  Days  ;  I  now  see  so  few  People,  and  those  all  of  the 
common  sort,  with  whom  I  never  talk  of  our  old  Subjects  ;  so 
I  get  in  some  measure  unfitted  for  such  converse,  and  am 
almost  saddened  with  the  remembrance  of  an  old  contrast 


VIII.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  197 

when  it  comes.  And  there  is  something  besides  ;  a  Shadow 
of  Death  :  but  I  won't  talk  of  such  things  :  only  believe  I 
don't  forget  you,  nor  wish  to  be  forgotten  by  you.  Indeed, 
your  kindness  touched  me." 

And  he  becomes  more  averse  to  making  the  personal 
acquaintance  even  of  those  Avith  whom,  as  a  corre- 
spondent, he  was  on  almost  intimate  terms ;  to  make  a 
new  acquaintance  in  person  was  evidently  of  the  nature 
of  a  terror  to  the  diffident  man. 

But  in  spite  of  his  own  diffidence,  to  be  surrounded 
with  love  seemed  to  FitzGerald  the  one  thing  worth 
having  in  the  world.  "Writing  of  a  friend,  who  had 
lately  been  left  a  widow,  he  said  : — 

"She,  though  a  wretchedly  sickly  woman,  and  within  two 
months  of  her  cor.finement  when  he  died,  has  somehow 
weathered  it  all  beyond  Expectation.  She  has  her  children 
to  attend  to,  and  be  her  comfort  in  turn  :  and  though  having 
lost  what  most  she  loved  yet  has  something  to  love  still,  and 
to  be  beloved  by.     There  are  worse  Conditions  than  that." 

And  again  of  a  devoted  friendship  between  two 
boatmen  : — 

"  I  tell  Ncwson  he  has  at  last  found  his  Master,  and  become 
possessed  of  that  troublesome  thing  :  an  anxious  Eegard  for 
some  one." 

One  of  the  most  salient  fcatui'cs  of  Fitztn'rald's 
whole  A'icw  of  life  is  this.  He  expected  so  mneli  from 
it :  his  mind  was  like  a  sensitive  ])lale  wliiili  catches 
impressions  with  delicate^  fidelity  :  and  the  result  was 
tliat  to  FitzClerald  every  moment  Avas  an  occasion. 
The  glaiU'C  of  an  eye,  tlu^  gesture  of  a  liand,  the  ivy 
(Ui  a  ruined  Avail,  tlie  jiiping  of  a  bii'il,  the  glitter  of 
light  on  the  leaves  of  a  foi-est  tree  when  the  sun 
tlares  high   (i\-ei'head,   the  rolling  uj)  of  great   piles  of 


198  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [chap. 

cloud,  the  gliding  plunge  of  a  ship  under  a  press  of 
canvas — all  these  things  came  home  to  him  with  a 
sharp  shock  of  pleasure.  He  was  a  lyrical  poet  in  his 
power  of  taking  hold  of  an  isolated  impression  of 
some  beautiful  thing,  but  without  the  power  of  lyrical 
expression.  The  danger  of  such  a  temperament  is 
that  it  demands  too  many  of  these  impressions,  and 
that  life  does  not  provide  enough  of  them;  besides, 
it  is  not  enough  that  they  should  be  there ;  there  must 
be  also  a  certain  harmony  of  mood,  a  power  of  inter- 
pretation, a  zest  Avhich  it  is  not  always  in  the  power 
of  the  spirit  to  secure.  Thus  FitzGerald  was  in  a 
certain  high  and  emotional  region  a  sensualist.  A 
sensualist  is  generally  understood  to  he  a  man  with 
a  keen  appetite  for  strong  and,  as  a  rule,  debasing 
sensations.  But  it  is  possible  to  be  a  sensualist  in  a 
higher  world,  the  world  of  beauty.  It  is  possible  to 
have  a  certain  uncontrolled  avidity  for  beauty,  and  to 
be  ill-content  with  the  leagues  of  commonplace  life 
that  must  be  traversed  without  the  coincidence  of 
mood  and  beauty.  Such  a  temperament  can  bring 
a  man  many  moments  of  pleasure,  but  it  can  hardly 
bring  happiness ;  and  it  is  almost  inevitable  that  as 
the  perceptions  grow  blunted  and  as  vital  energies 
decrease,  a  shadow  should  settle  down  upon  the  mind. 
This  is  to  be  clearly  detected  in  FitzGerald's  letters. 
He  was,  indeed,  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  inflict 
his  moods  directly  upon  his  correspondent.  His 
letters  were  often  written  with  a  kind  of  delicate 
courtesy,  a  desire  to  gi\e  pleasure  to  his  reader;  but 
none  the  less  is  it  clear  that  in  much  weariness  and  in 
a  settled  sadness  he  was  beguiling  the  time  as  best 
he  could,  the  time  that  denied  him  the  joys  he 
desired, 

fitzGerald  seems  to  catch  retiretfullv  at  the  flvini< 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  199 

moment,  that  strange  passing  current  that  may  not  be 
delayed ;  even  as  he  says,  "  Here  is  joy  and  heauty," 
the  moment  is  gone.  He  was  often  face  to  face  with 
the  mystery  that  there  is  really  no  such  thing  as  the 
present ;  the  future  beckons  at  first  far  off,  then  near ; 
then  even  in  the  swift  passage  of  thought  when  a  man 
says  of  a  sweet  moment,  "It  is  here,"  it  is  numbered 
with  the  past.  There  may  be  other  beautiful  moments 
in  store  for  the  heart,  but  never  exactly  the  same 
again.  Thus  all  FitzGerald's  moments  of  happiness 
were  clouded  by  the  thought  that  all  was  passing, 
moving,  changing.  In  his  case  this  never  turns  to 
bitterness,  but  it  turns  to  a  mournful  patience  : — 

"  One  Moment  in  Annihilation's  Waste, 
One  Moment,  of  the  Well  of  Life  to  taste — 

The  Stars  are  setting  and  the  Caravan 
Starts  for  the  Dawn  of  Nothing — Oh,  make  haste  I " 

Yet  it  is  this  very  mood  that  gives  FitzGerald  his 
sad  and  strange  power  over  the  mind,  for  these  are 
things  that  all  have  felt  and  have  experienced ;  and 
what  matters,  after  all,  in  a  poet  is  not  that  the  thing 
should  be  profitable,  but  that  it  should  be  true,  so  long 
as  it  is  also  made  beautiful.  For  disguise  it  as  we  will 
by  activities  and  by  pleasures,  we  live  under  a  shadow 
of  doom.  We  may  beguile  it,  we  may  banish  it,  l)ut 
the  tolling  of  the  bell  that  heralds  the  end  beats  in  our 
eai'.s ;  and  we  can  but  live  soberly  and  innocently, 
taking  all  into  account.  Ho  is  wisest  who  can  face 
the  solemn  nuisic,  and  who,  if  ho  caiuiot  l)c  happy 
himself,  can  at  least  strive  to  contrilmte  to  the  hap])i- 
ness  of  those  to  whom  his  heart  goes  out,  who  are 
bound  upon  the  same  mysterious  pilgrimage. 

The  question  that  remains  is  this;  To  what  extent 
is  a  man  bound  to  the  sei'vice  of  men  1     Tlie  answer  is 


200  EDWARD  FITZGERALD  [ohap. 

immensely  complicated  by  the  constitution  of  society, 
especially  by  the  social  order  which  authorises  a  man 
to  live  without  labour  upon  the  accumulations  made 
by  his  ancestors.  Given  the  shy  and  sensitive  tem- 
perament, the  acute  and  sceptical  mind,  the  indolent 
disposition  of  FitzGerald,  and  the  ample  competence 
which  he  enjoyed,  and  the  resultant  was  bound  to  be 
what  it  was.  He  was  too  sensitive  to  take  his 
ambitions  into  the  arena,  too  indolent  to  submit  his 
kindly  impulses  to  an  organised  system  of  philan- 
thropy ;  too  uncertain  to  preach  a  faith  which  he  could 
not  hold.  But  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
primal  law  which  seems  to  indicate  labour  as  a  condi- 
tion of  bodily  and  mental  equilibrium  can  ever  be 
quite  successfully  evaded.  FitzGerald  felt  the  need 
of  organised  work  in  his  own  life,  but  the  pressure 
was  never  strong  enough  to  induce  him  to  submit 
himself  to  uneasy  conditions. 

After  all,  the  process  of  estimating  the  character 
even  of  the  best  of  men  must  be  of  the  nature  of 
addition  and  subtraction.  It  is  the  final  total  that 
is  our  main  concern.  In  FitzGerald's  case,  on  the 
debit  side  of  the  account  stand  a  certain  childish- 
ness of  disposition,  indolence,  a  weak  sentimentality, 
a  slackness  of  moral  fibre,  a  deep-seated  infirmity  of 
purpose.  These  may  be  partly  condoned  by  an  in- 
herited eccentricity.  On  the  credit  side  stand  a  true 
loyaltj''  of  nature,  an  miobtrusive  generosity,  a  real  love 
of  humanity,  a  moral  clear-sightedness,  an  acute  percep- 
tion of  beauty,  a  literary  gift  that  at  its  l)est  was  of  the 
nature  of  genius.  There  can  be  little  question  on 
which  side  the  balance  lies.  We  may  regret  the  want 
of  strenuousness,  the  over-developed  sensibility  which 
led  him  to  live  constantly  in  the  pathos  of  the  past, 
the  pain  of  the  contemplation  of  perishable  sweetness. 


viii.]  HABITS— CHARACTER  201 

But  we  may  be  thankful  for  so  simple,  so  tender- 
hearted, so  in^'enuous  a  life ;  we  may  feel  that  the 
long,  quiet  years  were  not  misspent  which  produced, 
if  so  rarely,  the  delicate  flowers  of  genius.  To  enrich 
the  world  with  one  imperishable  poem,  to  make  music 
of  some  of  the  saddest  and  darkest  doubts  that  haunt 
the  mind  of  man — this  is  what  many  far  busier  and 
more  concentrated  lives  fail  to  do.  To  strew  the 
threshold  of  the  abyss  with  flowers,  to  dart  an  ethereal 
gleam  into  the  encircling  gloom,  to  set  a  garland  of 
roses  in  the  very  shrine  of  death,  to  touch  despair  with 
beauty — this  is  to  bear  a  part  in  the  work  of  consoling 
men,  of  reconciling  fate,  of  enlightening  doom,  of 
interpreting  the  vast  and  awful  mind  of  God.  Truth 
itself  can  do  no  more  than  hint  at  the  larger  hope — 
"  It  is  He  that  hath  made  us." 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Westminster,  61, 

Abbotsford,  160. 

-iEschylus,  152. 

Aqamemnon,  FitzGerald's  transla- 
of,  51,  84,  85,  118,  120,  121,  122. 

Aldeburgh,  64. 

Allen,  Archdeacon,  6, 10, 14,  21,  51, 
52,  65,  68, 138, 151, 182, 195, 196. 

Allen,  Heron-,  Mr.,  102,  107  n. 

Anatomy  of  Melancholy  (Burton), 
154. 

Apoloyui  (Newman),  l.'io. 

Ariosto,  161. 

Arnold,  Dr.,  24,  155. 

Athfjiwinn,  12,  35,  128. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  56. 

Attar's  Bird  Parliament,  Fitz- 
Gerald's translation  of,  41,  89, 
94-95,  109. 

Austen,  Jane,  63,  154. 

B 

Bacon,  34,  74. 

Barrow,  154. 

Barton,  Bernard,  15-17,  22,  28,  32, 

67,  73,  1S9,  181. 
Barton,    Bernard,    Selections  from 

the  Poems  and  Letters  of,  32,  84. 
Barton,  Lucy,  see  Fitz-Gerald,  Mrs. 

(wife). 
Bdranger,  162,  192. 
Bevare   of  Smootlt    Watrr   (play), 

126. 
202 


Bird  Parliament,  The,  41,  89,  94-5, 
109. 

Blakesley,  7. 

Boccaccio,  161. 

Borrow,  George,  39,  111,  15.5. 

Bonlge,  18,  21,  28,  61,  m. 

Bredtield,  3,  19. 

"BredfieldHall,"  14. 

Broad  Stone  of  Honour,  The  (Ken- 
elm  Digby),  131,  «. 

Browne,  William  Kenworthy,  14, 
15,  21,  22,  27,  38,  39,  43-45,  68, 
132,  172,  173. 

Mrs.  Kenworthy,  48,  179. 

Browning,  148,  161. 

BuUer,  Charles,  7. 

Burke,  154. 

Burne-Jones,  54. 

Burns,  134,  13.5. 

Byron,  72. 

C 

Calderon,  124,  125,  126,  127. 

Cidderon,  Six  Dramas  of  ,  35,  84,  85. 

Cambridge,  6-8,  63,  148. 

Carew  (jiioet),  14,  154. 

Carlyle,  22,  24,  25,  34,  36-8,  62,  61. 

67,  68,  72-6,  155,  172,  1S6. 
Carlyle  (Froude),  76. 
Cz.T\y\v'f,  Reminiscences,  75.  76. 
Charlesworth,  Mrs.,  181. 
Chorley,  John  Rutter,  12S. 
Christ  Cliurch,  Oxford,  14S. 
"  Chronomoros."  14. 


INDEX 


ao3 


Clarissa  ITarlowe  (Richardson),  51. 

Collins,  Wilkie,  155. 

Cowell,  Professor,  29  seq.,  3;',  36, 

38,  46,  52,  62,  63,  66,  67,  99, 110, 

124-5, 133, 151, 172, 173, 182, 184, 

191,  196. 

Mrs.,  29  seq.,  38,  172. 

Cowley,  112. 

Cowper,  154. 

Crabbe  (poet),  19,  58,  59-61,  137. 

George  (second),  19,  20,  28,  42, 

43,  192. 

(third),  19,  47,  62,  66. 

Miss  Caroline,  23. 

Crabhe,  Readings  in,  58,  85. 
Cromwell,  2. 
Cromu-cll  (Carlyle),  25. 

D 

Dante,  69,  72,  161. 

Darwin,  74. 

Days  and  //okas  (Frederic  Tiuny- 

son),  7  «. 
Dickens,    24,     75,     155,     Life    of 

(Forster),  161. 
Donne  (poet),  14,  112. 
— -  William    Bodliani,    4,   31,   43. 

6.3,  111,  140. 
Don  Qu/.(V'Ce  (Cervantes).  162. 
Drydcu,  154,  156. 


J'Mst  Ani/liau,  The  (journal),  53. 
F'.dgeworth,  Frank,  6. 

Maria,  24. 

"Elegy  to  Anne  Allen,"  14. 

Eliot,  George,  63,  155. 

Ely  Cathedral.  148. 

Emerson,  155. 

Kuphranor,  44,  84,  Ai^,  130-13'J. 

Euripides,  152. 


Fielding,  79,  154. 


FitzGerald,  Edward  —  birtli  and 
family  history,  2 ;  school-days, 
4  ;  hoy  friends,  4 ;  youthful 
traits,  4-5 ;  goes  to  Cambridge, 
6 ;  contemporaries  at  the  Uni- 
versity, 6-7 ;  life  at  Cambridge, 
7-9 ;  youthful  ambitions,  8 ;  visit 
to  Paris  with  Thackeray,  9 ; 
settles  at  Naseby,  10 ;  first 
poems,  12  seq.  ;  forms  various 
important  friend.ships,  14,  15 ; 
visits  James  Spedding  with 
Tennyson,  17,  18 ;  moves  to 
Boulge  Park,  18-20  ;  mode  of  life 
there,  21-23,  28,  29,  32 ;  friend- 
ship  with  Carlyle,  24,  and  Cowell, 
29 ;  eng.aged  to  Miss  Barton, 
32,  33 ;  edits  Barton's  Letters 
and  Poems,  32;  altered  circum- 
stances, 32 ;  death  of  his  father, 
33  ;  publishes  Polonin.t,  34  ; 
tr.anslates  Calderon's  plays,  35 ; 
moves  to  Farlingay  Hall,  35 ; 
studies  Persian,  36 ;  publishes 
SalimCui  and  Ab.fdl,  36;  visit 
to  Oxford  and  Bath,  36  ;  de.ath 
of  bis  mother,  36 ;  entertains 
Carlyle  at  Farlingay,  36 ;  mar- 
riage and  subsequent  separation, 
39-42;  works  at  Omar  KJunjiidm, 
43  ;  death  of  his  friends  Browne 
and  Crabbe,  43  ;  life  at  Wood- 
lu'idge,  46  seq.  ;  makes  the  ae- 
(luaintauco  of  Joseph  Fletcher 
("Posh"),  48;  translates  more 
l)lays  "f  Calderon,  50;  translates 
A(/a/neiiiiu'ii,  51  :  resumes  his 
intercourse  with  Cowell,  52  ; 
publication  of  the  (>//;<'/•,  53; 
contributes  to  the  i-J'st  Aiojlicn, 
53;  declining  years,  51;  moves 
to  Littletrrau^'e,  55 ;  entertains 
Tennyson,  57;  contributes  to  the 
Ip.iwiili  JoKi-iiii/,  .".s ;  pii"'li-liis 
liei((/iii'/^j'ri'ni  (_'fibl)-\  5S  ;  litei'- 


204 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 


ary  activity,  62 ;  visits  the 
Cowells  at  Cambridge,  63 ;  re- 
ceives the  Calderon  Gold  Medal, 
64;  approaching  end,  64  ;  death, 
66. 

FitzGerald — personal  appearance, 
8,  170-171  ;  simi)le  tastes,  10 ; 
religious  views,  23,  27,  28,  185 
seq.,  love  affairs,  23,  39-42 ; 
amusements,  47  ;  love  of  the 
water,  47,  50  ;  peculiarities,  50, 
173  seq.  ;  nielanclioly  and  pessi- 
mistic nature,  51,  182,  184, 190  ; 
friendships,  4,  5,  6,  7,  14,  15-19, 
24,  29,  43-45,  62,  67-83  ;  passion- 
ate interest  in  humanity,  60  ;  "a 
great  gentleman,"  143  ;  sorrows, 
143  ;  a  true  j  iidge  of  persons,  143 ; 
his  preferences  in  art  and  music, 
149-150;  his  prejudices,  149; 
habits,  55-6,  \QQseq.\  a  vegetar- 
ian, 168  ;  uuconventionality,  171- 
172 ;  affectionate  nature,  43-45, 
63,  172  ;  faults  and  shortcomings, 
175  seq.  ;  politics,  183  ;  good 
qualities,  189  seq.  ;  summing  up 
of  his  character,  197-201. 

FitzGerald — summary  of  Ins  writ- 
ings, 84  56?.  ;  style,  2 ;  letters,  1, 
7  M.,  136-146  ;  literary  instincts, 
8,  9  ;  characteristics  of  his  poetry, 
12  ;  lyrical  poetry,  10-14  ;  trans- 
lations, 51,  109,  119-130;  admir- 
ation for  Crabbe's  writings,  58  ; 
relations  with  and  judgment  of 
(a)  Tennyson,  69-72  ;  (/3)  Carlyle, 
72-6  ;  (7)  Thackeray,  76-80  ;  (5) 
James  Spedding,  80-83  ;  defects 
of  his  work,  85-89,  121-124,  126, 
127  ;  compared  with  Omar  Khay- 
yam, 96  ;  with  Calderon,  125  ; 
his  plays,  118  ;  use  of  anecdote, 
138;  humour,  139-140;  his  pen- 
pictures,  141  ;  his  critical  powers, 
142, 147, 152-154, 156  ;  essentially 


an  amateur,  144 ;  position  in  re- 
lation to  contemporary  poetry, 
144;  devotion  to  the  Classics, 
152  ;  summing  up  of  his  literary 
tastes,  \QZseq. 

FitzGerald,  John  (father),  2,  3,  33. 

Mary  Frances  (mother),  2,  3, 

8,  24,  33,  34. 

John  (brother),  26,  28,  35,  36, 

51,  52,  61. 

Mrs.,  nee  Barton  (wife),  32,  33, 

39-42,  43,  48,  53,  66. 

Eleanor  (sister),  9,  47. 

Maurice  (nephew),  58. 

Gerald  (nephew),  61. 

Fletcher  (poet),  14. 

Joseph  ("Posh"),  i%seq.,  53, 

54,  62,  71,  172,  173. 

Fortunes  of  Mgd,  T/ze  (Scott),  63. 

Fraser's  Magadne,  108,  110. 

French  Revolution,  Tlie  (Carlyle), 
73. 

Froude,  76. 


G 
Gibbon,  135. 
Gil  Bias,  162. 

Godefrldus  (Kenelm  Digby),  44,131. 
Godwin,  Memoirs  of,  158. 
Goethe,  69,  189. 
Gray  (poet),  154,  157. 
Greek,     FitzGerald's      translations 

from,  118-124. 
Groome,  Archdeacon,  6,  65. 


II 

Hafiz,  Odes  of,  36. 

Hallam,  163. 

Handel,  l.'iO. 

Hawthorne,  155. 

Hazlitt's  Poets,  13. 

Holy  Orail,  The  (Tennyson),  95. 

Homer,  152. 


INDEX 


205 


Horace,  153. 
Houghton,  Lord,  7. 
Hugo,  Victor,  148. 

1 

IclyllM  (Tennyson),  70. 

In  .Vf»wri«?/i (Tennyson),  70,  111. 

Ipswich  Journal,  The,  58. 


Junii,  89,  91,  109. 

.Jebb,  Sir  Richard,  120. 

.Johnson,  112. 

./o/i?(.sv//i  (Boswell),  155.  108. 

Jowett,  131. 


Keats,  157. 

Keene,  Charles  (artist),  62. 

Kenihle,  John  M.,  4,  7. 

F.inny.  56,  61,  68,  <q^,  1\,  110, 

17:]. 
Kerricli,  Mrs.  (FitzC-eralil's  sister), 

9,  47. 
Kingsley,  diaries,  81. 
ivitchiii,  George,  Dean  of  Durham, 

31. 


r.anib,  ChiuIfS,  VI.  15,  16,  5^,  137, 
l.')8. 

i.andor,  36. 

Laurence,  Samuel  (painter^,  23,  5-1, 
61,  65,  72,  79,  80. 

Leail'-f,  Thf  (journal),  35. 

Letters,  FitzGerald's,  I'.xtraels 
from,  S,  18,  19,  21,  22,  26,  27,  29, 
30,  35.  38,  11-45,  ■17-.':0,  52,  61, 
63-65,  68-71,  72-77,79-82,85-86, 
89,  91,  9'.*,  109-112,  119,  133,  13S- 
142,  l.".0-153,  l.W-^L',  li;7,  179, 
180-187.  19M93,  195-197. 


Lewes,  G.  H.,35. 

Lily  (poet),  154. 

Lockhart,  72. 

Lonsdale,  Bishop,  6. 

Lowell,  69,  127,  144,  151,156. 

Lucretius,  153. 

Lyell  (geologist),  185. 


M 

Macaulay,  163. 

Magico  J'rodigiosu,  Shelley's  trans- 
lation of,  127. 

Matthews,  Rev.  T.  R.,  26,  27.  18,'.. 

Maurice,  Frederic,  7. 

Mayor  of  Zd.lamea,  Tl'C,  125,  128. 

Meadows  in  Spring,  The  (poem 
quoted),  10-12,  145. 

"  Merchant's  Dauglitcr,  The,"'  14. 

Mcrivale,  Dean,  7,  88. 

Miglitij  Magician,  The  (play),  50, 
84,  126,  195. 

Milnes,  Jlonckton— .sw  Houghton. 

.Milton,  148, 154,  156. 

Montaigne,  162. 

Montgomery,  Robert,  13. 

Moor,  Major,  5. 


N 

Nasel)y,  Battle  of,  25,  26. 
Newcomes,  TAc  (Thackeray ),  79. 
Newman,  34. 
Newman's  Sennans,  155. 
Norton,   I'rofessor,  54,  69,  75,  94, 
142. 

(3 

Oc'-'iiif  (Harrington),  151. 
<Kdiiius,    FitzGrrald's   translatior, 

120,  122,  123,  124. 
Old  Jirail,  The.  14. 
Oii.ar  Khayyam  (poeti,  96,  l<i(». 


206 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 


Omar  Khayyam  (poem),  6,  29,  42, 
63,  54,  58,  84,  85,  89,  94,  95-117, 
118,  136,  144,  145,  origin  and 
analysis  of  the  poem,  95-117 ; 
time  and  manner  of  its  appear- 
ance, 96-7  ;  style,  97-8  ;  story  of 
FitzGerald's  acquaintance  with 
the  original,  99  ;  selection  and 
arrangement,  101 ;  interpolations, 
101 ;  variations  in  the  editions, 
102-5 ;  noblest  stanzas  of  the 
poem,  105-7 ;  publication  and 
reception,  103  seq.  ;  originality, 
111 ;  symbolism  of  the  original 
poem,  112;  motif,  114. 

Opium  Eater  CDe  Quincey)  74. 

Oxford,  30,  31. 

Oxford  Movement,  187. 


Palace    of   Art,    The  (Tennyson), 

125. 
Parker  (publisher),  110. 
Patmore,  P.  G.,  158. 
Peel,  Sir  Robert,  16. 
Pepys's  Diary,  168. 
Pirote,  77;e  (Scott),  159. 
Plato,  Dialogues  of,  132. 
Plays,  FitzGerald's  translations  of, 

\Useq. 
Plutarch,  152. 
Pollock,  W.  F..  54,   58,   159,  180, 

181. 
Poloiiius,  D4,  34. 
Pope,  137, 154. 
Potter,  Robert,  123. 
Princess,  The  (Tennyson),  70. 
Purcell,     John,      xrc     P'itzGerald 

(father). 

Q 

Quaritch  (publisher),  108,  llu. 
Quarterly  Jicviai:,  71. 


R 

Richardson,  154. 
Romany  Rye  (Borrow),  39. 
Rossetti,  108. 
Ruskin,  hi. 

S 

Sainte-Beuve,  162. 

Saldmdn  and  Absdl,   36,   58,   84, 

85,  89-94. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  59,  63,  72,  159, 

160. 
Selden,  34. 
Seneca,  153. 

Sdvigne,  Madame  de,  162. 
Shakespeare,  24,  72,  148,  154. 
Smith,  Mr.  Job,  28,  35,  46. 
Alfred,    29,    33,  46,    56,    64, 

172,  173. 
Sonnets,  Shakespeare's,  156. 
Sophocles,  152,  165. 
South,  154. 
Southey,  16. 
Soyres,     Mrs.     De     (FitzGerald's 

sister),  62,  177. 
Spalding,  Frederic,  49,  50. 
Sjianish,  FitzGerald's  translations 

from,  124  seq. 
Spectator  (Addison),  154. 
Spedding,  James,  7.  8,  17,   18,  56, 

62-3,  67,  68,  80-83,  189. 
Spenser,  154. 
Stephen,  Sir  James,  81. 

Sir  Leslie,  81. 

Such  Stuff  as  Dreams  are  made  of, 

50,  84,  129. 
Swinburne,  108. 
Synionds,  J.  A.,  137. 


Talcs  (if  the  Hall  (Crabbe),  59. 
Tasso,  161. 


INDEX 


207 


Taylor,  Jeremy,  154. 

Temple  Bar,  46,  62. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,    7,   17,   18,   24, 

54,  57,  62,  64,  65,  67,  68-72,  80, 

125,  134,  154,  172,  173,  188. 

Charles,  7,  154. 

Frederic,  7,  7  «.,  8,  22,  29, 

30,   54,   68,   79,  140,   141,    154, 

181,  183. 

Ilallam,  57. 

Thackeray,  6,  7,  8,  9,  10,  24,  44, 

48,  54,  67,  68,  71,  72,  75,  76-80, 

148,  155,  172. 
Thompson,  Dr.  (Master  of  Trinity), 

6,  39,  52,  53,  110,  180,  189,  194. 
I'hucydides,  152. 
Tlieaias  (Tennyson),  57. 
"To  a  Lady  .singing"  (poem  quoted), 

13. 
Tragedy,  Greek,  119-120. 
Trau.slations,  FitzGerald'.s,  from  the 

Greek,  118-124;  from  the  Spaui.sh, 

124-130. 
Trench,  Archbishop,  7,  125. 
TroUopc,  155. 


Vaughan  (poet),  154. 

Virgil,  153. 

"Virgil's  Garden,"  14,  46. 


W 

Walpole's  Letters,  157. 

Warlmrton,  154. 

"W esley' a  Jdurnal,  36,  51,  155. 

Wherstead,  4. 

Wilkinson,       Mrs.       (FitzGerald's 

sister),  62. 
Wordsworth,  6,    18,  72,  133,    154, 

158-9,  188. 

Christopher,  6. 

Wotton  (poet),  14,  154. 

Wright,  Mr.  Aldis,  3,  8,  44,  53,  62, 

63,  G4,  68,  98. 


I'ear-JjuuL,  lluue's,  12. 


I'Miib-.l  l.y  T.  .iii'l  A.  C.'t-.TABi  r,  rrint"is  ti>  IliOlBji'.^ty 
al  till'  Iviinl.'ir'4li  fnu  iMsit  y  Prr.^i 


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wholly  critical  age." 

ATHEN^-EUM. — "This  new  volume  of  the  'English  Men  of  Letters  '  is  one  of 
the  most  refreshing  in  that  admirable  series." 

PILOT.  —  "An  interesting,  entertaining,  and  even  inspiring  life  of  a  great  poet." 

CRABBE.     By  Alfred  Ainger. 

TIMES. — "  Canon  Ainger  has  given  us  the  book  we  should  expect  from  him,  one 
full  of  sincerity,  good  taste,  and  good  sense.  The  story  of  the  poet's  uneventful  life 
is  admirably  retold,  with  the  cj;'.iet  distinction  of  a  style  which  is  intent  on  its  own 
business,  and  too  sure  of  producing  its  effect  to  care  about  forcing  attention  by 
rhetorical  or  epigrammatic  fireworks.  And  Canon  Ainger  has  been  fortunate  enough 
to  be  able  to  add  a  few  new  facts,  and  throw  a  little  new  light  on  the  poet's  life." 

GLOBE. — "  UnquestionabK-,  and  even  obviously,  this  volume  by  Canon  Ainger  is 
the  best  available  account  of  Crabbe  and  his  works.  The  treatment  is  careful, 
thorough,  and,  while  sympathetic,  shrewd." 

FANNY  BURNEY     By  Au.stin  Dobson. 

TIMES.^"  A  book  of  unfailing  charm — perhaps  the  most  charming  of  this 
admirable  series." 

GLOBE. — "  Eloquent  and  sparkling.  ' 

SPECTATOR. — "  The  monograph  is  in  all  respects  worthy  of  the  admirable  series 
in  which  it  appears." 

PILOT. — "  In  asking  Mr.  Dobson  to  undertake  the  book,  the  publishers  have 
certainly  found  the  best  man  for  the  task.  .  .  .  Mr.  Dobson  is  too  well  known  and 
esteemed  a  craftsman  to  need  fr«sh  praises,  and  it  is  enough  to  say  that  here  is  another 
book  of  hi.-,  as  good  as  the  rest." 


JEREMY  TAYLOR.     By  Edmund  Gosse. 

DAILY  TELEGRAFH. — "  It  is  right  that  so  great  an  ornament  to  our  Church 

should  have  fitting  commentary  in  a  modem  series  dedicated  to  the  history  of  English 

letters,  and  Mr.  Gosse's  little  book  worthily  and  eloquently  expounds  his  high  theme." 

ACADEMY. — "  A  worthy  monument  to  one  of  the  greatest  of  Anglican  divines." 

MORNING  POST. — "  His  profound  and  brilliant  study  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  life 

and  writings." 

ROSSETTI,     By  Arthur  C.  Benson. 

TIMES. — "  A  very  good  book,  full  of  well-chosen  facts  and  of  discreet  sympathy 
with  a  character  that  needs  a  good  deal  of  understanding. " 

PILOT. — "  Mr.  Benson  displays  not  only  a  delicate  sympathy,  but  a  penetration 
and  a  sanity  of  judgment  that  enable  him  to  put  before  us  not  merely  a  plausible, 
but  a  convincing  portrait  of  a  man  who  twenty  years  after  his  death,  in  spite  of  changing 
fashions,  exercises,  as  in  his  own  day,  a  strange  and  potent  spell  over  the  imagination." 

MARIA    EDGEWORTH.      By     the     Hon.    Emily 
Lawless. 

GUARDIAN. — "  Miss  Lawless  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  having  produced  what 
is  very  nearly  the  ideal  life  of  Maria  Edgeworth.  Within  little  more  than  two  hundred 
pages  she  has  included  all  necessary  facts,  and  has  achieved  a  living  presentment  of  a 
most  estimable  and  lovaljle  character." 

STANDARD. — "  Miss  Lawless  has  drawn  a  most  acceptable  portrait  of  a  delight- 
ful woman." 

GLOBE.— "  A.  memoir  of  great  interest." 

HOBBES.     By  Sir  LESLIE  Stephen,  K.C.B. 

TIISIES. — "  One  of  the  most  remarkable  additions  to  the  '  Men  of  Letters.    .  . 
The  admirable  judgment  and  remarkable  knowledge  of  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  have  rarely 
lieen  seen  to  more  advantage  than  in  these  pages." 

GLOBE.—"  Valuable  little  work." 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.—''  Qwz  of  the  happiest  examples  of  Sir  Leslie's 
marvellous  success  in  making  biography  luifailing  in  us  interest." 

ADAM  SMITH.     By  Francis  W.  Hirst. 

THE  WORLD. — "A  careful  and  sympathetic  survey  of  the  life,  work,  and 
teaching  of  the  famous  political  economist." 

'TIMES. — "  Mr.  Hirst's  interesring  sketch  leavesthe  impression  of  a  life  singularly 
full,  rich,  and  successful,  lightened  and  wanned  even  towaids  the  close  by  the  sun- 
shine of  friendship  and  affection." 

THOMAS  MOORE.     By  Stephen  Gwvnx. 

TI.MES. — "  An  admirable  book.  .  .  .  Mi'.  Gwynn  has  surely  said  the  last  word 
about  this  warm-hearted,  volatile  personage,  whose  tact  -.xmX  taste  in  writing  verse 
were  for  so  long  mistaken  for  passion." 

.MORNI.\G  POST.  —  "  In  every  way  worthy  of  the  series  to  which  it  belongs." 

SYDNEY  SMITH.     I5y  George  W.  E.  Rus.sell. 

77j1/A',V.--"  Urilliant  biograpliical  study.  .  .  .  Tiie  part  of  i!..;  lioolc  which  i-  Mr. 
Russell's  ow!i  could  hardly  be  improved  for  vij;-Mir.  terseness,  and  point." 

A  T I { F. N .-K U M .  —  "  Those  responsible  for  the  .icUlition.-il  volumes  in  the  '  En>;li~h 
Men  of  Letters  '  ."series  made  no  mistake  wlien  they  iuvitnl  Mr.  George  Russell  to 
und'-rtake  a  study  of  Sydney  Smith.  ' 


EngUsb  flDen  of  Xetters. 

Edited  by  JOHN  MORLEY. 

RE-ISSUE  OF  THE  ORIGINAL  SERIES. 

Library  Edition,     Uniform  with  the  New  Series. 

Crown  Svo.     Gilt  tops.     Flat  backs,     is.  net  per  vol. 


ADDISON. 

By  VV.  J.  COURTHOPE. 

BACON. 

By  Dean  Church. 
BENTLEY. 

By  Sir  Richard  J  ebb. 
BUNYAN. 

By  J.  A.  Froude. 
BURKE. 

By  John  Morley. 
BURNS. 

By  Principal  Shairp. 
BYRON. 

By  Professor  Nichol. 
CARLYLE. 

By  Professor  NiCHOi.. 
CHAUCER. 

By  Dr.  A.  W.  Ward. 
COLERIDGE. 

By  H.  D.  Traill. 
COWPER. 

By  GOLDWIN  Smith. 
DEFOE. 

By  W.  MiNTO. 
DE  QUINCEY. 

By  Professor  Masson. 
DICKENS. 

By  Dr.  A.  W.  Ward. 
DRYDEN. 

By  Professor  Saintsbury. 
FIELDING. 

By  Austin  Dobson. 
GIBBON. 

By  T.  C.  Morison. 
GOLDSMITH. 

By  W.  Black. 
GRAY. 

By  Edmund  Gosse. 
HAWTHORNE. 

By  Henry  James. 


HUME. 

By  Professor  HuxLEY,  F.R.S. 
JOHNSON. 

By  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  K.C.B. 

KEATS. 

By  Sidney  Colvin. 
LAMB,  CHARLES. 

By  Canon  AiNGER. 
LANDOR. 

By  Sidney  Colvin. 
LOCKE. 

By  Thomas  Fowlbr. 
MACAU  LAY. 

By  J.  C.  Morison. 
MILTON. 

By  Mark  Pattison. 
POPE. 

By  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  K.CB. 
SCOTT. 

By  R.  H.  HuttON. 
SHELLEY. 

By  J.  A.  Symonds. 
SHERIDAN. 

By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 
SIDNEY. 

By  J.  A.  Symonds. 
SOUTHEY. 

By  Professor  Dowden. 
SPENSER. 

By  Dean  Church. 
STERNE. 

By  H.  D.  Traill. 
SWIFT. 

By  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  K.C.B. 
THACKERAY, 

By  Anthony  Trollope. 
WORDSWORTH. 

By  F.  W.  H.  Myers. 


MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Ltd.,  LONDON. 


CL.  10.3.05. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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